


Against All Odds

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Medium Burn, Romance, not quite slow but not that fast either ya feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9913424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: From the moment McCree meets him, he knows Hanzo is a prideful man. If there's one thing a prideful man can't turn down, it's a good old-fashioned bet. And McCree would know, because he's the exact same way.





	1. Chapter 1

The routine is a comforting familiarity, a welcome constant in McCree’s life: tap a single cigarillo out of the box, hold it between his teeth while he finds his lighter, listen to the sizzle of the tobacco wrapping as it catches the flame, then take that first mouthful of heady, cloying smoke. It’s going to kill him one day, if Angela’s testy warnings are any indication, but it doesn’t bother him much. It’s a simple pleasure, both in the cigarillo and the habit, and he’ll be damned if he gives it up anytime soon.

McCree breathes out the smoke on a sigh, where it dissipates into the open air as he leans out his dorm window. He looks out across the Gibraltar base, lit here and there by the outdoor lights to chase off the encroaching evening darkness. The Recall began a month and a half ago, yet he still finds himself a little shocked each time he looks out. The Watchpoint hasn’t changed, aside from the layers of dust and tarps, but he had never expected to find himself back here again. One day he was stopping a train heist on Route 66, the next he was answering a beacon that should never have lit up again. He had almost ignored it. He remembered too well how Overwatch had gone down in flames barely months after he had left. 

There were reasons he left in the first place, after all.

But Winston’s news had been too dire to ignore: an entity named Reaper leading a whole host of Talon agents, resurfacing all over the world and targeting Overwatch. He’s not too worried for himself, but everyone else . . . well, it might have been a few years, but they were still his friends. His family. And enough of them had gone down with Overwatch that he couldn’t stand idly by while the rest of them did, too.

So here McCree was again, and if he wants a smoke while all of this is happening, he’s damn well going to have a smoke. 

It hasn’t been busy, either. Winston was working hard with Athena to line up missions, pinpoint where Talon was and would be, but they were severely limited by the PETRAS Act and the fear of being discovered. That hasn’t stopped them from recruiting, though--so far, in addition to a handful of familiar faces, McCree’s seen three others make their way into the ranks, and anticipates more, both new and old. Genji had finally arrived yesterday, Mei a week before that, and many of the others had shown up just as McCree himself did. Still loyal to the cause, despite the lives they had now.

“Damn fools,” McCree mutters, though he knows he is no better. He takes another deep puff of the cigarillo and holds it, letting the smoke burn gently against his tongue and palate before he exhales again. At least he has this.

Still, though the cigarillo is a familiar pleasure, it’s not quite enough to take away the itching restlessness. Too few missions means he’s spent too much time cooped up on the base, discouraged from spending too much time in Gibraltar proper. It’s late, but he can’t sleep and he’s out of whiskey, so his options are limited. 

Peacekeeper gleams on his bedside table, catching the moonlight from the window. McCree considers. His phone beside it gives the time at 5:53: nearly time for team dinner. Rare are the nights where everyone is in one place in the evening, so when it’s possible, everyone gathers around the wide table once reserved for the higher-ups years ago. Far be it for him to miss one of those opportunities. He holsters his gun for later use instead.

The building is largely quiet as he makes his way from the dorms to the dining hall. In the past, even when half the team and the soldiers were gone, the halls would still buzz with activity during all waking hours. Now, there are fewer than a dozen people in the entire headquarters, and it’s easy to go without seeing another person without much effort. McCree finds that he doesn’t miss the hectic energy as much as everything else. 

The dining hall, however, is perfectly active. Everyone who has answered the Recall so far, plus a couple of newcomers, are all gathered around the table. Lúcio, a newer recruit, bustles back and forth in the kitchen, tending to a couple of large pans on the stove and a basket of bread on the counter. Lúcio has only been on the team for a week, but he’s made himself comfortable among the team and his surroundings, and he has been a welcome addition overall. McCree finds himself a seat between Lena and Reinhardt to wait with the others. 

“There you are,” says Lena. “Fashionably late as always.”

“I ain’t ever late. I arrive when I mean to,” McCree replies, which makes Lena giggle.  

“Whatever you say.” She looks toward the kitchen. “I just got back from London, so I can’t wait for a real meal. Lúcio says we’re in for a real treat.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm. I can’t remember what he said it was. Fay-something?”

“ _ Feijão tropeiro _ ,” Lúcio interjects, leaning between them to set down the pans from the stove. He winks at Lena. “It’s alright, you don’t have to pronounce it. Just gotta enjoy it. Woulda made the  _ good _ bread to go with it, but there’s only so much time in the day.”

McCree peers into the pans, filled with beans and sliced sausage and chopped greens. As he grabs his plate and takes his fill, he asks, “So what was in London?” 

“Winston wanted me to take a look around, and I dropped in on Emily, too.” Lena fidgets with a fork. “After what happened to Mondatta, I’m a little nervous leaving her there alone.”

“I wouldn’t worry. You know we wouldn’t let anything happen.” Lúcio says, returning with a basket of plain bread rolls. “That’s what we’re all here for, right?”

“We get the job done,” McCree agrees, stacking two rolls on his plate. “Speaking of, any news yet on any jobs? It’s been awful slow since we got back.”

“Winston said he’s got some ideas he wanted to talk about tonight,” Lena says. McCree looks down the table toward the tall gorilla perched at the end, skimming a tablet over the rims of his narrow glasses. “I hope it’s something good. The world needs us back, not just sitting around.”

McCree glances around the rest of the table. He notes Mei, Angela, and Torbjörn on the other side of the table, in addition to the other four in various spots, but one is still absent. 

“We’re missing Genji,” he says. “Wonder what he’s up to.”

“Dunno,” says Lena around a mouthful of beans and sausage. “But you know him. He could be anywhere. Wow, Lúcio, this is amazing--”

“Good evening, everyone,” says Winston, interrupting McCree before he can respond. Winston stands up straight, pulling himself to his full seven-foot height and adjusting his glasses. The table gradually falls silent, all eyes falling on their surrogate leader. “Since everyone’s here tonight, I thought we’d discuss some of our upcoming missions. I realize it’s been slow, but I think we have a few leads that are worth investigating.”

“Good,” rumbles Torbjörn. “I don’t like all this standing around.”

“Neither do I, believe me.” Winston scrolls through some text on his tablet. “But there are a few things I want to look into. With Athena’s help, I’ve tracked the activity of some notorious groups with recent activity, including Los Muertos in Dorado and a resurgence of the Deadlocks in New Mexico. I can’t tell what they’re up to quite yet, so I’m arranging undercover missions to begin in the next couple of weeks.”

McCree holds back a groan. He doesn’t mind undercover work by any means, it’s the location--he just pissed off the Deadlocks last month, and there’s no doubt they’re still looking for him. If he gets sent down there, he’s a dead man walking.

“There have also been a few attacks on notable individuals recently--Mondatta, obviously, but also some big names in science, some other omnics known for their peacekeeping work.” Winston scrolls again, peering at his screen. “I want to keep tabs on them, maybe plant Overwatch as extra security when they’re on the move. I don’t want any repeats of London.”

Beside McCree, Lena shifts uncomfortably in her seat. He pats her once on the shoulder as silent reassurance, and she gives him a weak smile.

“Nothing is set in stone yet, but I will be making assignments within the next week. I want everyone to be prepared to ship out,” Winston finishes, setting the tablet back on the table. “And remember, we have to stay under the radar. We’ll be moving as soon as we can, but carefully.”

Winston sits, and chatter slowly resumes around the table. McCree preoccupies himself with his meal--which  _ is _ excellent, he’ll have to congratulate Lucio later--while the others hypothesize about the big-name individuals they might be tasked with guarding. Aside from the news from New Mexico, McCree is just as excited to get going again. Now he’ll definitely need to put in some time at the range. 

 

\--

 

When he steps into the shooting range, he expects it to be empty, given the time of night. But to his surprise, he is greeted by two individuals--Genji, standing off to the side as he watches the range, and a stranger McCree has not seen before. They both look toward him as the door whooshes shut. 

“Good evening, McCree,” Genji says politely, giving a nod in his direction. “Have you come to shoot?”

“That’s the plan,” McCree replies, tapping the gun at his hip. His gaze slides over to the other man in the room, who has already returned his attention to the range. He does not hold a gun, however--he is shooting with a bow, of all things. And shooting well, if the multiple arrows in the distant target are any indication.

“I have hardly seen you since I arrived,” Genji continues, reaching out to clap a hand on McCree’s shoulder. “I am happy to see you, old friend.”

McCree gives a wide smile. “Me too, partner. I hardly expected you of all people to come back here.”

“I could say the same of you. You left shortly after I did, did you not?”

“Yeah.” McCree blows out a sigh. “But I couldn’t just leave Winston high and dry, could I? I don’t like the sound of all that Talon nonsense. Thought they were done the same time we were. But that’s nothing. How have you been? Missed you at dinner tonight. You seem . . . better.”

“I am much better. I would have been at dinner, but I was a little preoccupied.”

“Winston says we’re going to be getting some good missions in soon. We--”

The soft thunk of an arrow hitting a foam target interrupts McCree’s train of thought. He turns to look down the range and sure enough, another arrow is embedded in the target on the edge of the center circle. McCree gives a low whistle, impressed.  

“Oh! My apologies,” exclaims Genji, stepping between McCree and the stranger. He gestures back to the other man. “McCree, this is my brother, Hanzo. He arrived this morning. Hanzo, this is McCree, an old friend of mine.”

Hanzo releases another arrow before he turns to face them both, and McCree finally gets a good look at the man. Short dark hair pulled into a high bun and shaved on the sides, strong angular features, a fitted black shirt that highlights every single chiseled muscle in his shoulders and chest--McCree’s mouth immediately runs dry, and that’s before he notices the intricate dragon tattoo running the length of Hanzo’s left arm. 

Genji never mentioned that his brother was drop-dead gorgeous.

Hanzo raises a brow at him, and McCree realizes he’s been staring just this side of too long to be polite. He puts on his best charming smile and offers a hand. “Right. Just call me McCree,” he says, then adds as an afterthought, “but you can call me  _ anytime _ .”

“I will not,” says Hanzo.

“Alright.” McCree takes back his hand, properly chastised, and clears his throat awkwardly. Next to him, Genji laughs, giving a fond shake of his head. 

“You do not wait, do you McCree.”

“Yeah, yeah. Can’t blame a man for tryin’.” McCree turns his attention to the target down the range, looking for another subject. “So, uh. You’re the infamous Hanzo, then.”

“Infamous?” Hanzo repeats. His gaze slides over to Genji. “I did not realize I was  _ infamous _ .”

Genji shrugs mildly. “I talk about my family just as anyone else here does,” he says.

Hanzo glares, but Genji says nothing else.

McCree fumbles for a safer topic of conversation. Tactics is always safe. “Bow and arrow is an unusual one. You a sniper?”

“For the most part.” 

“Joining Overwatch?”

“I have not decided.”

“He is very talented,” Genji interjects. “Not just with the bow. He was by far the better swordsman when we were young. I keep telling him he should join, but--”

“It is my decision,” says Hanzo, notching another arrow and aiming down the range. “My reason for coming here was not to join Overwatch in the first place.”

Genji gives a heavy sigh. Hanzo releases the arrow, and it strikes the target far away, just off-center of the bullseye. “We could still use you,” says Genji. 

“I will decide in my own time.” There’s a note of firmness in Hanzo’s voice, brooking no argument. 

McCree watches Hanzo shoot for a moment. Every arrow is right on the mark, making a cluster of shafts in the target like a particularly pointy bouquet. The last time he saw someone do distance shooting that well, he was still in Blackwatch, and she’s long gone now. They can use Hanzo, he knows they can, but he has no idea how to convince a stranger to join when he himself barely wanted to come back.

He hesitates, licks his lips, and makes a quick decision. “Wanna make a bet?” he asks. 

Hanzo looks over his shoulder at him skeptically. “A bet? I barely know you.”

McCree shrugs, makes a show of casually opening the chamber on his gun and checking the bullets. “Just a little one,” he says. “You’re a pretty good shot, but so am I. I’m willin’ to bet I can shoot better, in fact.” 

“McCree,” Genji warns, but it goes unheeded. McCree shoots him a wink:  _ I know what I’m doin’. _

“So?” McCree persists, smiling pleasantly at Hanzo. “You in or what?”

Hanzo narrows his eyes, but does not outright reject the idea. “What are the terms?” he asks.

McCree snaps Peacechamber’s chamber back into place. “If I win,” he says, “you gotta tell me why you don’t want to join Overwatch.”

Hanzo visibly balks. He composes himself quickly, but his voice is disdainful when he asks, “Why do you think something is stopping me?”

“Ain’t no reason you’d come all the way out here and then just book it once you said hi to Genji, so I know you’re already thinkin’ about it. Probably saying no just to be stubborn. But I can guarantee we could use a sniper like you, especially if you’re half as good as Genji says you are.”

“You do not know me.”

“No, but I’m real good at reading people, and you strike me as the kinda guy who can’t turn down a chance to prove someone wrong. And if Genji wants you here, that’s good enough for me, to hell with the rest of it.”

“This does not mean I will agree to join just because you win.”

“That’s not what I’m askin’.”

Hanzo considers for a long moment. “Fine,” he says. “And if I win?”

“What do you want?”

Hanzo looks him up and down, deciding. McCree shifts his weight, hooks his thumbs in his belt, and hopes Hanzo likes what he sees. He can’t imagine what Hanzo would want from him. He supposes he could tell him about when he joined Overwatch, if he keeps it vague, or maybe how he knows about what happened to Genji--

“I would like your hat,” Hanzo decides. 

McCree blinks. “My hat?”

“Yes. It seems like something you would miss dearly. I would return it, of course. In due time.”

After a moment, McCree takes off his hat and sets it on a nearby desk. “Alright, deal,” he says. “Genji, you’re our witness. Highest score in two minutes wins it. Athena, mind settin’ us up?”

“Of course, Agent McCree,” the AI replies. The firing range shifts configuration, the old targets and the dividers between lanes are taken down, and new targets at various distances rise in their place. McCree can see Hanzo scanning the set-up, his dark eyes narrowed and keen as he peers across the range.

“Ready to go?” McCree asks.

“Yes.” 

Athena gives a countdown overhead. Once she says “start,” the targets in the range kick into motion. The humanlike silhouettes move randomly at different points in the range and at various speeds, providing a variety of challenging targets.

Hanzo immediately bursts into motion, grabbing arrows one after the other and firing at targets further down the range. Athena counts up his points overhead:  _ one, two, three _ . McCree is quick to follow, Peacekeeper at the ready. He shoots at two targets as they pass in front of him, landing two shots in the first one’s chest and one shot in the neck of the second. He sees Hanzo cast him a glance from the corner of his eye, looking somehow both impressed and annoyed. The look is fleeting, however, and Hanzo quickly returns to his shooting. 

It becomes quickly apparently that they are evenly matched. Hanzo has an eye for distance targets that McCree can’t match with a gun, but in turn means that McCree has the advantage in the closer range. Still, he pushes to keep himself on even footing. Every time Hanzo scores a point, so does McCree, and vice versa, until McCree has completely lost track of who is ahead and can only focus on his next targets, determined to beat Hanzo and come out victorious over the standoffish stranger. 

He loves it. 

When the two minutes are up, the targets come to an abrupt halt. “Time complete,” says Athena. “Agent McCree has finished with twenty-three points, Hanzo with twenty-two.”

Genji whoops a cheer behind them. Hanzo lowers his bow, his nose wrinkling with frustration. McCree chuckles and holsters his gun, giving it a pat on his hip. 

“Well, there we have it,” he says. “That was a real close one. Never seen anyone shoot like you do.” Hanzo scowls at him, and McCree laughs. “Don’t do that, I won fair and square. I told you I was good.”

“He did,” Genji adds. “He is one of the finest shooters Overwatch has ever seen.”

“I do my best.” McCree leans over to pick up his hat, brushing a bit of imaginary dust off the brim before he sets it on his head where it belongs. “So. That means you gotta tell me why you’re so set on not joining Overwatch.”

Hanzo levels him with flat look, saying nothing. He quietly hooks his bow over his shoulder. 

“Partner?” McCree prompts.

Hanzo turns on his heel abruptly and heads for the door. He does not even stop to collect his arrows from the range, leaving some two dozen embedded in the foam targets. McCree watches in stunned silence as Hanzo departs.

“So,” Genji says as they both watch the door slide shut. “What do you think of my brother?”

McCree purses his lips. “Bit testy,” he says. “I ain’t a fan of a man who goes back on his word.”

“He is always like that. Well, testy, anyway. But he is honorable enough. I am certain he has reasons.” Genji shrugs his shoulders. “I would not worry about it for now. He only just arrived and I think he is more overwhelmed than he wants to show. You can return to hitting on him later.”

“Now that ain’t--”

“You hardly have to defend yourself from me, McCree. I trust you.” Genji casts a glance toward the door. “Besides, my brother would benefit from someone being friendly, even if he acts like he does not want it.”

“I’m not making some commitment here. If he don’t want me to be friendly, I’m not going to push it.”

“Says the man who just made a bet with him and nearly lost his hat for it.”

McCree swats Genji on the shoulder. Genji laughs, rubbing at the spot as though pained despite his full-body armor. “Either way,” Genji says, “I am not asking you to be his friend. I just mean that  _ someone _ needs to show him a kindness. I am glad he is here, but I know he will isolate himself. I doubt I can help him alone.”

“You’re awful bent on helping the guy who about killed you a little while ago.”

“Yes, well.” Genji sighs, looking back toward the door. “It is very complicated.”

\--

 

McCree keeps an eye out the next morning for the elusive Hanzo, but never once sees him. Hanzo has evidently declined to share in the team breakfast--unsurprising, if a little disappointing--and does not make himself known. The only reason McCree knows he’s still around at all is because he hears the name come up in conversation with Genji. Nobody else seems prone to talk about him without being prompted. McCree wonders if anybody else even knows the man’s around. 

Other than that, though, the handsome archer remains in hiding, and McCree eventually lets himself be distracted by more important things. 

Winston decides that this afternoon will be spent running drills and simulations in pairs and as a team, getting ready for the upcoming jobs. McCree, eager to have a change of pace even if training is not inherently interesting, is among the first to arrive. 

Though McCree remains as good a shot as ever, it has been some time since he worked closely with a team. He finds himself relishing the hours spent in the arena, capturing and protecting fictional points with a handful of others at his back. Even though he typically runs flank, he still gets to listen to the chatter over his earpiece, casual conversation mixed with tactical updates. When a training bot catches him unprepared and shoots a pellet against his shoulder, Mei takes down the bot before he can even turn around, and Angela is right behind to heal the bruise before it forms. 

When they finally finish, and the team begins to trickle out of the arena toward the main door, McCree catches himself grinning. 

“Good work, everyone,” says Winston, who also ran a few of the drills. “I’m glad to see everyone’s still in good shape. I look forward to working with you all on the field.”

“They won’t know what hit them!” Reinhardt booms excitedly. He thumps his massive hammer on the ground for emphasis. “Every one of us is better than any of those Talon monsters. We will be victorious!”

McCree chuckles at Reinhardt’s boisterous announcement. The man is over sixty, yet his enthusiasm hasn’t been the least bit dampened. “It’s a good thing you’re on our side, then,” he says, knocking on Reinhardt’s metal chestplate. “We wouldn’t know what to do against you.”

The rest dissolve into happy chatter, but McCree trails behind the others as they leave. He’s itching for another cigarillo before dinner, but nobody else is quite as fond of his habit as he is. He fishes in his pockets and pauses just outside the arena. As the door slides closed behind him and he’s lighting up, he catches sight of someone in his peripheral vision.

Hanzo leans up against the wall, staring off into the distance as though distracted. He looks over as McCree does, meeting his gaze. 

“Oh,” says McCree. “Howdy.” 

Hanzo glances down at the cigarillo. His lip curls in a displeased grimace. “Must you?” he asks. 

Affronted, McCree replies, “I wasn’t exactly expectin’ you to hang out around here, so yes.” He leans his hip against the doorway and inhales deeply on the cigarillo, demonstrating. Hanzo says nothing, choosing to look away. 

After a minute of uncomfortable silence, McCree asks, “Why’re you out here, anyway?”

“I wished to speak with you.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job of it so far.” McCree gestures, indicating the distance and general quiet between them. 

Hanzo says nothing for a long moment. Then he says, “I do not believe I am worthy enough of Overwatch.”

“What’s that?” says McCree. 

“The terms of our bet. You wished to know why I hesitate to join Overwatch. That is my answer.”

McCree chuckles lowly, raising his cigarillo to his lips again. “Didn’t think you were gonna tell me at all, way you stormed off last night.”

“You did not specify when I had to answer you.” The faintest of smirks tugs up the corner of Hanzo’s mouth--not a smile, but amusement nonetheless. “So I chose to wait.”

“You knew damn well you weren’t supposed to make me wait.”

“Did I? You did not tell me.”

McCree shakes his head. “Unbelievable.” He starts to say something else, but that is when he notices the piercings: a silver hoop in each of Hanzo’s ears and a bar across the top of the bridge of his nose, capped on either end by a small sphere, all glinting in the light from the setting sun. McCree forces himself to keep a straight face and wonders how he had not noticed them before. Honestly, when he had first heard about Hanzo, he had expected an uptight, traditional-looking sort of fellow--not the kind of guy who wore an undercut and had multiple piercings. Not that it’s any less attractive--quite the opposite. Another air of mystery surrounding the already distant man. 

McCree gives another shake of his head, this time to rid himself of the thoughts. It takes a second to refocus on what Hanzo had told him. “So what do you mean you’re ‘not worthy?’” he inquires.

Hanzo’s smirk drops and he is quick to look away. “It is as it sounds.”

“But why? I can make a guess, but . . .”

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

“You just said our bet--”

“Our bet was for the reason I do not want to join Overwatch,” Hanzo interjects coolly. “I have told you. The rest of it is details, which you did not specify that I had to tell you.”

McCree huffs. “You’re an awful stickler about this.”

“It is not my fault you made the terms so simple. I am following the letter of your law. Be more specific next time.”

“Letter of the law but not the spirit,” McCree mutters around his cigarillo. “Fine, fine.”

Hanzo stands up straight off the wall, hands in his pants pockets. He hesitates as though to speak, but says nothing and begins to walk away. 

“Goodnight,” is all he says.

McCree lets him go, thinking about the “next time” that Hanzo had hinted at. Maybe it meant nothing at all, or maybe it meant Hanzo anticipated talking to him again. 

He rests his head back against the doorway as he finishes off his cigarillo. He could guess well enough what Hanzo meant about being “unworthy.” If Hanzo was anything like himself, he was hanging on to those old memories of Genji’s assumed death for all it was worth, hating and belittling himself all the while. It was only a guess, but it was the most obvious choice. 

Regardless, McCree found himself more intrigued by the man than he would have expected. 

 

\--

 

Two days later see McCree up yet again in the middle of the night--not insomnia this time, but nightmares. He wakes in a cold sweat, his heart pounding in his chest and his blankets thrown to the floor. The stale dorm air quickly chills on his skin, leaving him shivering. 

He plants his feet on the floor and runs his hands through his hair. He can already tell that he won’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. His body is flooded with adrenaline--a cup of coffee or a nighttime movie won’t be enough to calm him tonight. With a groan, McCree stands, pulls on a jacket, and grabs Peacekeeper and a few belts of extra rounds. At least it’s late enough that the shooting ranges will be empty and nobody will try to ask him questions. It’s the one benefit to waking up every other night due to his own useless brain. 

McCree slogs across the quiet, starlit headquarters to the ranges. Despite being wide-awake thanks to the nightmares, his body feels dead exhausted. There’s no way to reconcile the two, no matter how much he would like to drop himself face-down back in bed. He’s tried everything on nights like this, but all he can ever do is wait it out or try to work off the residual panic. Years ago, he would have worked himself up all over again just being unable to sleep. Nowadays, it’s more of an annoyance than anything else.

McCree taps in his PIN at the range and lets himself in. To his surprise, the lights are already on. He thinks they had been left on by mistake until he sees a figure at the closest end, a recurve bow in hand--Hanzo. 

Hanzo pauses with an arrow on the bowstring to look at him. McCree winces. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t know someone else was gonna be up.”

Hanzo shrugs one shoulder. “You have more of a right to be here than I,” he says, returning his attention to the target. McCree can see that the board is riddled with holes, though only two arrows are stuck in it. Hanzo’s been here awhile, then.

“I can go,” McCree offers. 

“That is not necessary, but do what you wish.”

“Alright.” McCree says before making his way a few aisles down. He sets up a single target at a middle distance and pulls out Peacekeeper, but finds himself hesitating to shoot. Though his mind is wide awake, his body is still heavy with exhaustion. He forces himself to pull the trigger, and four bullets find themselves in varied parts of the target’s chest, one on the edge of the silhouette. Target hit, but not nearly as clean a spread as he would like. He curses and rubs his eyes with his other hand.

“You seem troubled.”

McCree looks up to see Hanzo watching him, bow lowered. “Yeah, something like that,” McCree replies. “Don’t usually sleep well.”

“I see.”

McCree listlessly fires the last two bullets in his gun, hitting the target once, and scowls. He pops out the chamber and fits another belt of rounds, though his enthusiasm is significantly dampened. “What are you doin’ up, then?” he asks.

“The same reason.” Hanzo lets off another arrow.

McCree hums. He spends a moment staring at the target, wondering if he should even bother continuing. He is considering quitting and finding some other way to occupy his time when Hanzo asks, “Would you like to make another bet?”

McCree regards Hanzo with surprise and suspicion. “Another bet?”

“Yes. Similar to the other day. Most points wins.” Hanzo gestures toward the range. “To make it fair, we would shoot at middle and long-range.”

“You’re askin’ me to make a bet?”

“I would think that obvious. You said you are troubled, you are shooting poorly, and you seem like you could use a distraction. Do you accept?”

McCree laughs disbelievingly, then shrugs. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll take it. What are the terms?”

“A bottle of  _ sake  _ when I win.”

“ _ When _ you win? You already lost once.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll take a good bottle of whiskey, then, keep it even.”

“That is acceptable.” Hanzo taps at the control panel, resetting both of their ranges. “Are you ready?”

“Ready when you are.”

When all is said and done, McCree loses the second bet by a handful of points. He blames his exhaustion, although he has a feeling Hanzo is in much the same place and still manages to win. McCree can’t bring himself to mind, though--by the end of it, he’s smiling, and Hanzo looks like he’s enjoying himself, too. 

Now he just has to figure out where to find  _ sake  _ in Gibraltar. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Any sign of them yet?” McCree murmurs into his comm. He himself is slouched in the windowside bench of an abandoned house, having long given up the pretense of being interested in the nothing outside.

“ _St_ _ill no_ ,” sighs Lena.

They were supposed to be intercepting a large delivery en route to a Talon drop point, but after four hours, they have seen nothing at all. Just a long, winding road on the outskirts of Dorado, weaving through foothills that are speckled with the occasional house or convenience store. McCree is used to waiting, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“ _Nothing on our end, either_ ,” says Reinhardt, who is stationed with Lúcio somewhere down below.

“ _So far, all we’ve learned is that Reinhardt’s taste in music is a serious mess,_ ” adds Lúcio, who had been good-naturedly ribbing Reinhardt for his love of Hasselhoff not five minutes prior.

Lena giggles. “ _There is that_ ,” she says, “ _but not much else._ ”

McCree sighs and rests his head back on the wall. “Startin’ to think this one’s a bust,” he says. “Coulda caught wind of us before we even touched down and made a run for it.”

“ _W_ _inston would’ve caught it_ ,” Lena replies, unexpectedly stern. “ _If he says they’ll be here, they’ll be here._ ”

“ _Aye, they will be_ ,” Reinhardt agrees. “ _We must be patient._ ”

Lúcio groans quietly, and McCree chuckles. Privately, he feels the same. Just because he’s learned patience over the years doesn’t mean he isn’t itching for a real fight.

He returns his attention to the landscape out the window. The home he is hiding in has been abandoned for months, maybe even years. The window was left open a few inches by its previous inhabitants, perhaps in their haste to leave, and the cool nighttime air drifts through to caress McCree’s skin. Some miles down below, he can just see the glimmering lights of Dorado, a bright, exuberant city unaware of what’s happening outside of its borders. McCree had spent some time in the city itself in the past two days, surrounded by the sights and sounds, acting as his team’s translator as he switched easily between English and Spanish. It was a welcome distraction, even as they spent the whole day gathering intel undercover. Hell, if he managed to make it to retiring age, he might not mind coming back here.

“ _So how’s your first mission, Lúcio?_ ” asks Lena. “ _Not everything you thought it’d be, I bet._ ”

“ _Nah, but it’s okay. Not everything can be exciting. Worth the wait if we can stop them from getting those weapons._ ”

“I’m surprised we’re gettin’ new recruits like you,” says McCree. A faint shadow moves somewhere in the distance, but when he focuses on it, he sees nothing at all. “With the way Overwatch went down the first time and all.”

 _“Are you kidding? Overwatch was a huge inspiration when I was a kid!_ ” Lúcio exclaims. “ _I_ _woulda jumped at the chance to join back then. People from all walks of life coming together to fight for the greater good? That’s my kind of party._ ”

“ _Indeed,_ ” says Reinhardt. “ _It was a shame when Overwatch fell. Nobody else could do what we did. I’m glad to be back._ ”

“ _Me too,_ ” Lena agrees. “ _The world can always use more heroes, after all._ ” There’s a brief silence, then Lena continues, " _Speaking of, anyone know about that spooky new guy at the Watchpoint? Genji’s brother, I think?_ ”

McCree laughs. “Spooky” is not a bad descriptor. “That’s Hanzo, yeah,” he says. “Showed up like a week ago looking for Genji. I guess they’re trying to sort things out.”

Lena makes an unhappy humming noise. “ _I_ _don’t know if I like it,_ ” she says.

“Aw, he’s alright. Bit prickly, but I don’t think he’s here to do any harm.”

“ _Why? What’d he do?_ ” Lúcio interjects.

As Lena explains the sordid history between the Shimadas, McCree once again sees a flash of movement between the hills. He squints across the distance, and can just see the square shapes of two armored vehicles rumbling down the road, half-obscured by a cloud of dust. Undoubtedly, these are their targets.

“Hate to interrupt y’all, but we got company,” he says, cutting off Lena mid-sentence. His heart thumps with a spike of adrenaline and his blood sings with anticipation, ready to begin. He smirks as he gets to his feet and grabs his gun.

“ _E_ _xcellent,_ ” says Reinhardt. The sound of his clunking armor is audible over the comm. “ _Let them come!_ ”

“ _I'_ _ll go say hello,_ ” Lena says with a giggle. Down below, McCree can just see a flash of blue, streaking down the road and quickly fading from sight.

McCree makes his own way down the stairs and out of the decrepit house. He estimates about six to eight guards, given the size of the trucks and the quiet nature of the area. Not enough to provide any real danger, he thinks, but enough to provide a little bit of a challenge. Somewhere behind him, he can hear the clatter of heavy armor and hard-light skates, and knows Lúcio and Reinhardt are not far.

“ _Looks like eight of them,_ ” says Lena in a low voice, confirming McCree’s suspicions. “ _F_ _our on each truck. One driver, one passenger, two guards on the back. Armed, but I think we can get them pretty easy if we move quick.”_

 _“I can help with that_ ,” says Lúcio. A bright, energetic song filters in over the comm. As McCree listens, he can feel all of his muscles responding to the sound, like the music has activated a livewire in his body. His lungs feel fuller, his legs quicker. He thinks he could run a mile in record time if the situation called for it.

“Damn, that’s just from music?” he asks, breaking into a sprint just for the hell of it. “That’s something else.”

“Modified tech from Vishkar. It has its uses.”

McCree positions himself behind a rocky outcropping surrounded by scrubby plants. The trucks rumble closer, unaware. He can see Lena across the way, out of sight of the road. The curve of a low hill separates Lúcio and Reinhardt from his vision, but he trusts they're just behind, waiting with surprise on their side.

“Here they come,” says Lúcio. “I got an idea.”

The trucks pull into view, maintaining a steady speed. McCree tightens his grip on Peacekeeper and waits. His sights are set on the two armored figures standing in the back Closer, closer . . .

“Now,” he says. He darts around the corner, gun raised and finger on the trigger.

As he does, he sees a blur of color in his peripheral vision that he recognizes as Lúcio just before there’s a booming burst of noise. The guards on the truck go flying before they can so much as raise their weapons. Lúcio hits the ground on the other side of the truck, grinning and taking off again. Lena is on them in a flash, pistols firing rapidly. The truck skids to a sudden halt, and the two guards on the second truck shout until they, too, come to a halt. The sound of assault rifle fire fills the air, and is quickly interrupted as McCree shoots one of them twice in the chest. The guard crumples and falls off the truck bed to the dusty ground.

“Get behind me!” Reinhardt shouts as, all at once, the truck doors open and the rest of Talon’s soldiers file out of the vehicles. The giant appears from behind me, his hard-light shield raised as a glowing barricade against oncoming threats.

Lúcio reappears beside McCree as they both duck behind Reinhardt. As bullets ricochet off the shield with dull, warbled thuds, McCree is grateful, as always, to have Reinhardt on their side.

There’s a flicker of a pause in the fire, and McCree takes his chance. The nearest of the Talon agents goes down with a single shot to the neck, and another screams though the rattling fire of Lena’s pistols. The sound of footsteps behind him makes him whirl around, hand already on a flashbang. The agent shouts as the grenade bursts in his face, and falls immediately after to McCree’s bullets. Lúcio’s sound cannon knocks back another, leaving the agent open to a crushing blow from Reinhardt’s hammer. He goes flying with the sickening crunch of bones and then, all at once, everything is silent.

Lena blinks into existence beside the others. “That was the last of them,” she says. “We’re all clear.”

“Anyone hurt?” asks Lúcio. Before anyone responds, he flicks a switch on his gear, and the music changes to something soft and soothing. The weariness drains from McCree’s body as the music plays, and he sighs with not a small amount of relief.

“I think we’re all good,” he says. “Not a scratch. Those guys were less of a fight than I expected.”

“Or maybe we’re just that good,” Lena giggles. She reloads her pistols with a quick little twirl and holsters them back at her sides. “Let’s take a look at what we’ve got, yeah?”

The trucks, when opened, are stacked with heavy metal crates. Investigation reveals a host of weapons: plasma rifles and pistols, grenades, even a handful of tactical knives. Nothing out of the ordinary, based on what they have seen from Talon so far.

“But why would they have these out here?” Reinhardt wonders aloud. “I don’t think there has ever been a Talon base here.”

Lúcio climbs into the cab of one of the trucks and slides back out with a tablet in hand. He skims through some of it, frowning, and says, “It looks like these were going to someone else? ‘Los Muertos?’ I can’t read it all, but this looks like an invoice of some kind.”

“Los Muertos?” McCree repeats. “That was the gang we heard about earlier. If Talon’s shippin’ weapons to some random gang in Mexico, we might have something a lot bigger on our hands.”

Lúcio’s expression darkens. “It was bad enough they were a gang, but now they’re gettin’ help from those guys?” he growls. “Horrible. The people of Dorado are just trying to live their lives, and these people would rather ruin it for themselves. Just like back home.”

McCree reaches over and pats him on the shoulder once. “That’s what we’re here for. They’re not gettin’ away with anything, don’t you worry.”

“Indeed, my young friend. We will put a stop to them,” Reinhardt adds. “We dealt a blow to them today!”

“We did.” Lena slams the lid shut on one of the crates. “We should let Winston know that we got the supply. He’ll want to know about this, and I think Athena can crack their documents.”

Lúcio doesn’t look mollified in any way, but he nods his agreement and tucks the tablet away. McCree feels a little chill of guilt. It wasn’t long ago that people talked about him just as Lúcio did Los Muertos.

Not that either of them hadn’t deserved it.

 

\--

 

The team packs back onto the shuttle in the morning, ready to head home with their liberated cargo in tow. The flight lasts somewhere near 10 hours, and once they’ve gone through all the distractions and topics of conversation they can, everyone lapses into their own silence. Lúcio listens to music, drumming his fingers on his thigh, and Reinhardt naps on one of the long couches. Lena focuses on piloting the shuttle, leaving McCree to his own thoughts. He drifts in and out of a doze wedged into the corner of another couch, eager to get to Gibraltar and back to his own bed.

Still, even though he tries to sleep, he finds that cannot rid himself of the conversation they had the day before. He appears to be the only one who has actually met Hanzo in any capacity, everyone else basing their judgements on rumor or short interactions. He can hardly blame them, he admits, but it makes something twist uncomfortably in his gut nonetheless.

He was not much better when he joined Overwatch, after all, and everyone had regarded him just the same. McCree doubts anyone has given it a second thought, but it sticks with him nonetheless.

Eventually he falls asleep, and wakes again to the gentle rumble of the shuttle docking in the loading bay and to a crick in his neck. He shuffles off the shuttle with the others, massaging his aching neck, and makes a beeline for the mess hall. It is nearly four in the morning local time so the others peel off for bed immediately, but McCree’s empty stomach and irritated internal clock both fight to be known. As good as it is to be back with Overwatch, he sure didn’t miss the weird schedule.

McCree stumbles into the kitchen, the lights flicking on automatically as he does. He roots around in the cabinets until he comes across a can of ravioli, dumps it in a bowl, and shoves the lot into the microwave. A horrible meal, but it’ll be satisfying enough, and that’s all he can ask for. When the microwave trills, McCree grabs his food and a bottle of water and plops down into the first empty seat he can find at the table.

He is halfway through his meal when he hears the gentle patter of approaching footsteps. He can guess who it most likely is, and his suspicions are confirmed when Hanzo sweeps by. The man is effortlessly silent but for his steps. Whether or not Hanzo notices him is uncertain, as he makes no effort to even look in his direction as he goes to the kitchen.

“Evening,” McCree says mildly around a mouthful of ravioli. Hanzo hums in return. Noticed him, then, just uninterested in his presence. Makes sense.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Hanzo makes a cup of tea, borrowing a mug from the cabinet and taking from a box of green tea McCree doesn’t remember seeing before. Exhaustion weighs down his every movement, drags on his body like a heavy cloak. There’s more to him than a few simple sleepless nights.

“We gotta stop meetin’ like this,” McCree says with a little laugh.

“I will leave shortly,” says Hanzo, gaze on his tea.

“What? No, I’m just kidding. Don’t have to go nowhere on my account.”

Hanzo casts him a flat glance. McCree shovels more ravioli into his mouth to shut himself up.

Despite his apparent disdain, however, Hanzo does take a seat at the far end of the table with his tea. He drinks in silence, alternating between dainty sips and staring tiredly into his cup. McCree finishes his dinner but lingers at the table.

“So,” he says when a solid five minutes have passed, “What’s got you up tonight?”

Hanzo visibly starts at the sound of McCree’s voice. Apparently, he forgot McCree was even there. He quickly composes himself again and says, without looking up, “Personal troubles.”

“I’d gathered that much. Was hopin’ you’d tell me more. Startin’ to think you sleep worse than I do, and that’d be impressive.”

Hanzo doesn’t answer. McCree continues, unperturbed, “Usually nightmares for me. Stuff that happened years and years ago but I still can’t shake, you know?”

Hanzo hums again, disinterested. “Is that why are you are awake now?” he asks.

“No, actually. Just got back from Dorado.” McCree scratches his beard absently. “Granted, I’ll probably be up in three hours anyway because of them, but not right now.”

Hanzo sips his tea. McCree fidgets with the cap from his water bottle. He considers the thought of a pre-bed smoke, but eventually dismisses it. Those cigarillos take just long enough to get through that it isn’t worth it tonight.

“Have you known Genji long?” Hanzo suddenly asks. McCree blinks out of his thoughts to find Hanzo staring intently at him from across the table.

“Uh. I guess so. Knew him when he came to Overwatch so that’s . . . ten years or so? Didn’t really hear from him for five or six of those, though.”

Hanzo looks back to his tea. “So you know, then,” he says gruffly. “I imagine he was brought here after it happened. He has mentioned Dr. Ziegler a few times.”

McCree sighs deeply. He can tell where this train is headed. “Yeah, they brought him back here for all the . . . cyborg stuff,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his own face. “And he stuck around. Most of us who were around back then know what happened.”

“I see.”

Hanzo lapses back into silence. McCree spins the bottle cap on the table and watches it until it falls. “So is that what’s got you up, then?” he finally ventures to ask. “All that stuff with Genji? Imagine it must be hard seein’ him--”

“It is not your business,” Hanzo says curtly.

McCree puts up his hands in surrender. “I’m just askin’,” he says. “You asked about Genji, so I asked back.”

“One might think you were _prying_.”

“I’m not tryin’ to. Just makin’ conversation, one fellow insomniac to another.”

Hanzo lapses back into silence. McCree bites back a sigh. He’s about to give up entirely when a sudden thought comes to him. He jumps to his feet, rattling his chair and startling Hanzo.

“Just remembered, I have something for you,” he says, already making his way toward the door. “Wait right there, I’ll be back in a minute.” He doesn’t hear Hanzo’s response as he strides away quickly, headed for the nearby dorms.

When he returns, he walks right up to Hanzo and sets a glass bottle down on the table in front of him. Hanzo appears to have finished his tea, so McCree is pleased to see that he waited nonetheless.

“Here you are,” McCree announces proudly. “One bottle of _sake_. Meant to get it to ya before I left for Dorado, but I didn’t get a chance.”

Hanzo’s brow furrows in confusion. He reaches out to take the bottle. “ _Sake_?” he repeats.

“From the bet last week. Told you I’d get it.”

“I had assumed you had forgotten,” Hanzo says, intently inspecting the label.

“Nah. Just got busy. I ain’t one to forget my debts, and you earned it.”

Hanzo stands, the bottle in one hand and his empty tea cup in the other. “Thank you for this,” he says, without making eye contact.

McCree smiles pleasantly. “O’course,” he replies.

Hanzo nods once, a short acknowledgement, and steps around McCree to the kitchen. He deposits his mug in the sink and departs just as silently as he came.

“Good night, then,” McCree calls, and doesn’t receive an answer. He is left feeling off-kilter, confused by the stilted conversation followed by the sincere thanks. Thankfully, by the time he gets into bed, he’s too exhausted to give it any more thought.

 

\--

The next few days are a structured whirlwind of activity. With the roster of missions quickly being filled and assigned, everyone in Overwatch is on the move. Rarely is everyone in one place for breakfast anymore, and anyone remaining on the base spends their days doing regulated training under either Winston’s or Athena’s watchful eye. McCree himself spends some time in London briefly, following up on rumors of Talon’s return, then comes back and throws himself back into the training. Each day, he is left feeling pleasantly worn out, muscles sore and tired from hours of good, productive work almost as good as a mission.

McCree falls easily into a regular routine: breakfast and training in the first half of his day, then the late afternoon relaxing somewhere around the base with whoever will listen to him talk, dinner either on his own or in the mess, then an evening doing whatever he pleases. Sometimes he shoots, here and there he’ll pick up his old guitar and play a few tunes in the privacy of his room. Sometimes he does nothing at all and just spends the time with his own thoughts, or napping, taking that quiet kind of time he could never afford while living on the run.

He didn’t realize just how much he missed Overwatch until he found these routines again, surrounded by people he could almost call family. It throws all his years alone into sharp contrast. He almost can’t remember why he ever left.

On one afternoon, he is in the middle of a grueling session with Genji, Mei, and Winston, attempting to take a fictional objective from a swarm of training bots. Genji darts around as their flanker, McCree and Mei handle most of the damage, and Winston serves as a terrifying wall between them and the bots. Even though it’s a simplistic view of their fieldwork, McCree enjoys the fight nonetheless, and the team made up of old Overwatch veterans makes him feel like he’s back in training from years ago.

It’s when they’re nearing the end that Genji says through the comm, “ _Oh, my brother is here._ ”

McCree can’t see the entrance from where he is, pressed flat behind a building as he waits for the timer to end. “Is that so,” he replies, and ducks around the corner to shoot a bot twice in its rectangular chassis. “He sure has a habit of showin’ up at random around here.”

“ _Does he need something?_ ” asks Winston.

“ _I do not know. I have not seen him much in the last few days._ ”

“ _I_ _s everything okay?_ ” asks Mei.

“ _Hard to say. My brother has always been difficult to read._ ”

The timer sounds overhead. The bots, both those remaining and those feigning death, get up and file away toward the back room where they stay. “Excuse me,” Genji says. McCree sees him bound across the gap between two buildings and slide down the other side, approaching Hanzo at the front.

By the time McCree makes his way to the front with the others, the brothers are involved in a heated, if completely nonsensical, discussion. They speak in rapid Japanese, and from their body language and tones, the conversation is not a pleasant one. Hanzo stands stiffly, his arms crossed over his chest; Genji’s hands are curled into loose fists at his sides. Hanzo begins to raise his voice, his lip curled in a snarl, when Winston interjects a firm “ _Gentlemen._ ”

Almost instantly, both Hanzo and Genji stop, their gazes turning to Winston. Winston clears his throat and adjusts his glasses primly. “I’m sure this can be settled without resorting to shouting matches in our training arena.”

Genji sighs heavily, which sounds like a burst of static through his mask. “My apologies,” he says. “We were discussing his decision regarding Overwatch again.”

Hanzo glares, but Genji continues, unperturbed, “I keep telling him to join us, but nothing will convince him. And since this really is meant to be a team-only area . . .”

“I was only looking for you,” Hanzo says. “That fact is irrelevant.”

“I was _busy_. Just because you are on the base does not mean I am at your beck and call, brother.”

“Still on the fence then, huh?” McCree asks, and is summarily ignored. He shares a glance with Mei, who looks just as uncomfortable as he feels.

Winston shuffles in his spot. “Well,” he says, “rules are a bit lax since there’s only a few of us here, but Genji is correct. With the security problems we’ve had, I’d feel better letting you onto the whole base if you were a member of the team.”

“It’s not that bad,” Mei interjects in her regular soft way. “It’s just the sim arena.”

“I apologize if I have intruded,” Hanzo says, “but this is not what I came here to discuss.”

Genji gives an irritated groan. “You say that every time!” he exclaims. “You actively avoid this. You have no more excuses. You only refuse to join us because you are afraid. You act as though you want to change, but refuse to actually do anything that would mean something. I am beginning to wonder if I misjudged you when we last met.”

For whatever reason, that makes Hanzo freeze. His face falls before he quickly schools it back to a neutral expression, but McCree still sees the shock and despair in that brief second. He doesn’t know exactly what happened in Hanamura between the two, but he knows that Hanzo is stalling, and what he needs to get moving is a swift kick in the ass.

“Make you a bet,” he says. Genji and Hanzo both turn to look at him, startled. “Run a sim with me, right now. And if I win, you gotta quit lollygaggin’ and join Overwatch.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes. “What? That is ridiculous. This decision does not involve you.”

“Well, it kinda does, since it’s my team, too.”

“I have already told you why I have not yet made my decision.”

“Listen,” McCree sighs, “nobody here gives a shit about your worthiness. Believe me, if they did, I wouldn't have gotten in here either. So if that’s really the only reason, then I’m gonna make it not an issue.”

A muscle flexes in Hanzo’s jaw. Winston and Genji share a glance. McCree waits, staring down Hanzo.

“Fine,” says Hanzo. He shrugs off his bow and pulls the string gently, testing. “ _If_ you win, I will join you. But if not . . .”

He trails off, thinking. His gaze snaps back to McCree’s. “You must tell me how it is you came to join Overwatch. In detail.”

McCree does his best not to show his displeasure at the idea. His past with the Deadlocks isn’t exactly a secret anymore, but he still isn’t sure he wants to explain all of it to this man in particular. He still can’t even tell if Hanzo actually likes him or just humors him for the sake of simplicity.  

“Why that?” he asks.

“I have heard rumors, and you are unnaturally invested in me being part of the team. It is hardly a large request compared to what you have asked me to do.”

McCree supposes Hanzo will find out eventually, and it might as well be from his own mouth. From one man with a dark past to another.

“Alright then,” he agrees. “On the off-chance you beat me two bets in a row, I’ll tell you about it. Winston, mind setting us up?”

Winston seems annoyed but does as asked. As he taps in the settings on the controls, he says, “Twenty-five training bots in the arena. Highest score wins. Then perhaps we can put this nonsense behind us.”

“This ain’t nonsense. This is my pride on the line,” McCree retorts.

“It is a little bit nonsense,” says Genji. Before McCree can respond to this, the starting alarm sounds overhead, and Hanzo is off like a gunshot. He watches as Hanzo jumps toward the wall of a nearby building and, defying physics, climbs up the wall and onto the roof without breaking stride. He’s seen Genji perform the feat before, but he had always assumed it was something to do with being a cyborg. Hanzo is simply a human being, which makes it all the more astounding.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Genji shouts, “Stop watching his ass and go, Jesse!” He swears loudly and sprints into the arena after, ignoring the laughter behind him.

“Hanzo two, McCree zero,” says Athena. McCree swears again. Hanzo’s too quick for his own good.  

He rounds a corner and there he sees his first targets: two bots roaming in opposite directions down an alley. A flash of Peacekeeper, two rapid shots, and both bots hit the ground with a clatter. McCree moves on quickly.

“Hanzo two, McCree two.”

He ducks into another building and sees another bot. This one is faster than its comrades and aims a pellet gun directly at McCree’s face. A quick stun grenade and another shot takes it down without a hitch.

“McCree three, Hanzo two.” Then, immediately after, “McCree three, Hanzo three.”

The next few minutes are tense. Every time McCree gets a target or two, so does Hanzo, and their scores are evenly matched for the entirety of the sim. McCree is beginning to worry that he’s made a mistake after all.

As the last thirty seconds tick down, their scores are even: 12-12. McCree catches sight of the winning shot--a single bot left, its back turned to him as it roams down a narrow hall. It’s the textbook definition of shooting fish in a barrel. He can’t help a smirk as he raises his gun, takes aim--

\--and is interrupted as an arrow streaks overhead and effortlessly pierces the bot in the back.

“Simulation complete,” announces Athena. “Victory is awarded to Hanzo with thirteen points.”

“How the shit--” McCree whips around, looking for the man who just stole his kill. It isn’t until he looks up that he sees Hanzo, who is standing on a walkway above. Hanzo regards him with a cool gaze as he lowers his bow to his side.

“I believe that settles the matter,” he says.

“Now hold on,” McCree starts. Hanzo ignores him as he hops down gracefully from the bridge, landing cat-like on his feet. “You--”

“I won our bet this time. You agreed to the terms before we began. You have no argument.”

“I woulda won if you hadn’t sniped that last shot away from me.”

“Do you think it was unfair that I shot first?”

McCree shuts his mouth with a click and huffs out a short, displeased breath through his nose. “No,” he admits begrudgingly.

“Then you agree. The matter is settled.”

“That was great!” Mei cheers, drawing both of them away from their argument. “I’ve never seen anyone with a bow like that before.”

“I expected better of you,” says Genji to McCree.

“ _That_ aside,” interrupts Winston, adjusting his glasses primly on his nose again, “I am going to have to request that you limit your time in these areas, Mr. Shimada. I have no qualms about you staying for your brother, but security exists for a reason, after all.”

Hanzo presses his lips into a thin line. “I understand,” he replies. “My apologies. I did not intend to overstep.” He looks to McCree. “I believe our business can be handled elsewhere.”

“I think I might need a drink for that one,” McCree says honestly.

“That can be arranged.”

 

\--

 

Hanzo sets the bottle down between them as he sits across from McCree, on the other side of the table in the empty rec room. McCree blinks as he recognizes the label.

“Just because I got you that doesn’t mean you gotta share,” he says.

Hanzo chuckles and reaches for the _sake_ to pour them each a solid measure. “I am aware. It is my choice to do so.”

McCree hums and brings the glass up to his nose. The liquor smells sweet and strong, almost flowery, a far cry from his favored spirits. “Never actually had this stuff before,” he says, and takes a taste.

“No?”

“Mm-mm.” McCree rolls the _sake_ across his tongue. It stings, rather than burns, a pleasant counterpoint to its sweetness. “Not bad. Think I prefer somethin’ with a little more bite to it, though.”

Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Such unsophisticated taste,” he replies, before taking a deep draft of his own drink. McCree laughs once, but does not push the point.

A minute passes in silence as they both drink, before Hanzo pointedly sets down his glass. “So,” he says. “You were to tell me why you want me in Overwatch.”

“Yeah.” McCree sighs heavily, taps his finger against the side of his glass. “Well, you’re a damn good shot. That much is obvious. And we’re obviously kinda fightin’ to get any sort of real team back together after what happened when Overwatch fell apart.”

“I had gathered as much. But you do not strike me as the kind of man to force this particular issue.” Hanzo reaches for the bottle and refills both of their glasses, which have been finished alarmingly quickly. “There is more to it.”

“Kinda.”

“And that is?”

McCree stares down at his glass for another long moment. Then he begins to speak.

He starts in the middle, which for all intents and purposes is his new beginning: the day Gabe picked him up off the street, the days he wasted in an interrogation room, the begrudging deal to join Blackwatch and get his life together. “Everyone hated me,” he says, of the team members who were there when he joined, “because of course they knew what I did. I did want to try to do better, but no one believed me for weeks. I couldn’t blame ‘em.”

Hanzo looks at him thoughtfully. “And what was it you did?”

From there McCree explains the Deadlocks, the circumstances of his joining as a young teenager, the job that went awry and left him to be captured by an Overwatch sting. He doesn't look at Hanzo as he does. Despite all these years. He is still ashamed. He probably always will be.

“Long story short,” he says with a shake of his head, “I’ve been where you are. I still kinda am. Overwatch was my turnin’ point. I guess . . . kinda saw a kindred spirit in you, if that makes sense.”

Hanzo regards him with an inscrutable look. “But we still do not know each other well,” he says.

“I don’t need to know everything to see when someone else is hurtin’.”

Hanzo runs the tip of his finger around the rim of his empty glass. “Perhaps,” he concedes.

McCree sighs deeply. “Look,” he says, “I can’t make you join us, obviously. Seems like the harder someone pushes you to do something, the more you dig your heels in.” Hanzo smirks, just a little, and does not disagree. “But Overwatch . . . it has a history for guys like us. We’re just trying to do a little better than we did before. So if all you’re worried about is what you did, you shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter.”

Hanzo’s amusement drops. He looks back down at his hands, wrapped loosely around the glass. His hands look strong, but a bit delicate, McCree thinks mildly, cradling the glass more than holding it. He does not fully understand why the thought crosses his mind, but he lets it be.

“It is not so easy to get over,” Hanzo says quietly.

“Well, that’s not the point. The point’s to get started doing somethin’ right. Overwatch had its issues back then, but we still did some good. Still do.”

“You are really that convinced?”

“I am. I’ll be the first to tell you how fucked up Overwatch was on the inside by the end of it, but there was a reason we were around. And if it can help me pull my sorry ass out of the mud, it can help you, too.”

McCree swirls the rest of his drink in the glass, watching as it catches the lights overhead. “I can’t tell you what to do,” he says, “but your past can only hold you back if you let it, and believe me, a man ain’t meant to live in the past all his life.”

Hanzo swallows hard. “You are very kind,” he says lightly.

“Nah. Probably too nosy, actually.”

“You can be both.”

McCree snorts. “Thanks, darlin’. That’s real kind.”

“I am only returning the favor.” Hanzo tries to hide his smile behind his drink, but McCree sees it nonetheless.

Somehow, the topic of conversation moves on to lighter subjects--recent missions, the others on the base, what Overwatch used to be like. They drink together for another hour, finishing the bottle of sake. When they are finally done, Hanzo gets up to clean up their mess before McCree can even think to help.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” Hanzo says as he takes the glasses into the kitchen.

“F’r what?”

“The other night. I accused you of prying, but then I demanded much more of you tonight. I apologize.”

“Oh.” McCree pushes himself into a more upright position. The _sake_ has left him pleasantly buzzed, and he could easily melt into the table instead of going to bed--which would not be terribly impressive. “Well. I’d forgotten about it, to be honest, but thank ya.”

Hanzo nods, apparently satisfied. He rinses the glasses in the sink and sets them aside dry, discards of the bottle in the recycling, and turns as though to leave. “Well then. I suppose--”

“You know,” McCree interrupts, “if you wanna talk to me, you don’t have to make a bet to do it.”

Hanzo blinks. “What?”

“Not that I’m complainin’. I mean, I started it. But if you just want to--I don’t know, talk or drink or whatever, you can just ask. Like normal people do.”

“You dress like a cowboy but wish to lecture me on what _normal_ people do?” Hanzo smirks at him, softening the blow of the insult, but only barely.

McCree slaps his hand over his chest in mock affront. “How dare you. I’m charming,” he replies. “Besides, you’re hardly one to talk. Ain’t never seen someone with a bow and a hair ribbon.”

To his surprise, this gets a genuine chuckle out of Hanzo. He looks across the room, meeting McCree’s gaze. His eyes are remarkably dark, like a black coffee, and have the same effect of sending a not-unpleasant thrill through McCree’s gut.

“Perhaps,” Hanzo concedes. “Maybe neither of us should lecture on normalcy.”

 

\--

 

In the morning, McCree wakes up to a global notification on his phone. It’s a message from Winston that reads, “Please welcome our newest agent, Hanzo Shimada, to the Overwatch team.”

McCree’s too sleepy to get up yet, but as he drops his phone back onto the table, he smiles into his pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sick of looking at this. Just take it. Get it away from me. 8(

Hanzo spends almost the entire train ride on the phone, bickering with Genji. 

McCree can’t tell about what; Hanzo’s done that thing again where he talks in public but switches to Japanese so that it’s effectively private. He’s not even sure they’re  _ arguing _ , exactly, since Hanzo almost always sounds gruff when he’s not making an active effort to be polite. They’re all together on the train to the outside of King’s Row, and the one-sided conversation is grating and inescapable.

Still, it’s better than the shouting match they had last week, so McCree doesn’t comment on it. Any sort of conversation is probably progress for the brothers. He chooses to ignore it, and instead focus on the mission ahead.

Since Mondatta’s assassination a couple of months ago, tensions have been higher than ever, and there’s concern for another anti-omnic attack. It hadn’t stopped the omnic rights movement in London from growing rapidly--far from it, in fact. There was a small parade scheduled today, touted as both a protest and a celebration, defiance in the face of adversity. McCree hadn’t turned anything up on his brief stint in London earlier, but now there’s a good chance there’s an EMP bomb somewhere on its way to the procession, which warranted a team on standby. Winston had been doubly concerned, having been the first to receive reports on Mondatta’s fate--from Lena, no less.

McCree, on the other hand, is happy to see that he’d finally been assigned a mission with Hanzo, after two weeks of missing each other on assignments. Hanzo was apparently establishing himself well with the rest of the team, but aside from a few brusque conversations in passing, McCree had hardly seen him. 

It doesn’t  _ matter _ , exactly, but he’s still pleased to finally get to work with him, and see those skills put to the test himself. Hanzo’s impressive in training, but any agent knows that training is nothing like the real thing. 

“Are you done?” asks Hana. She sits beside McCree, her gaze riveted on a handheld gaming system. “Like, with the arguing and stuff? It’s getting boring.”

Hanzo immediately cuts off, and he is silent for a long moment. “We were not arguing,” Hanzo says stiffly.

McCree can’t help a snort of laughter. He doesn’t know Hana well yet, but he likes her attitude. It reminds him a bit of himself at her age. 

Hana had only arrived the previous week, but apparently, half the team had already known her from her online fame. McCree never thought he’d see the day when a young gamer and actress made her way into Overwatch, but here they were. But she got along well with everyone, unlike a certain other newcomer McCree knew, and was determined and capable. That was good enough, not to mention leagues ahead of where McCree himself was when he first joined up. 

The wit was an added bonus.

“We were having a civil discussion,” Hanzo adds. “Nothing more.”

“That’s kind of rude, you know. Talking so we can’t understand you.” Hana blows a bubble with her gum and lets it pop, the vision of indifference. 

“Are you really interested in hearing about our terrible family?” Hanzo asks lightly. 

“Maybe, if it’s anything like my shows.”

Hanzo huffs a bit of a laugh, too, which surprises McCree. “It is dramatic,” Hanzo concedes, “but hardly entertaining.”

“Any good story’s going to have some angst in it,” Hana says. McCree half-expects Hanzo to snap at this, but instead, he sees a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. 

“Perhaps, but nonetheless, I think this is a story we will skip for today.”

Hana makes a disappointed noise. 

The train pulls into the station not far from King’s Row, and they disembark into a crowded station. McCree grimaces at the dozens of people gathered just nearby, most of whom are heading in the same direction. “Looks like we’re not the only ones headed that way,” he says. 

“No. We will need to be careful,” Hanzo agrees. “It will be very easy for our enemies to hide here.”

Hana tugs the hood of her coat tighter around her shoulders. “I hope nobody recognizes me,” she says. 

“Does that happen a lot?” McCree asks.

“Well, I  _ am _ pretty popular.”

“Do not worry,” says Hanzo. “I’m sure McCree is loud and brightly-colored enough to draw attention away from you, should we need it.”

“Hey now, I’ve been doin’ this kind of thing for years.”

“And have you always done it with a bright red blanket?”

McCree huffs. “Now I  _ know _ I’ve told you it’s a serape--” he starts. He cuts himself off when he sees the smirk on Hanzo’s face. “Oh, haha, I get it. You’re a real riot, Hanzo.”

“Ugh, gross. Quit flirting and focus on the mission,” says Hana. She doesn’t react to the simultaneous unimpressed looks she receives. 

Though there is still an hour before the parade begins, the main street is already packed with attendees, a motley crowd of humans and omnics lined up with posters and cameras in hand. The crowds stretch in both directions down the road with no end in sight. There are vehicles and cobbled-together floats parked, waiting for the procession, painted or covered in posters with their riders nearby. It makes it easy for Overwatch to blend in, but also means that Talon could be right under their noses.

“I will go higher,” Hanzo offers, gesturing to a row of balconies overlooking the street. McCree glances over Hanzo’s shoulder at the bulky cello case that contains his bow, hidden from civilians who would be less than thrilled to see a bowman at their parade. McCree likewise has his gun tucked in his jeans, behind the tail of his serape, and Hana has a small pistol in her hoodie and her mech on standby somewhere out-of-sight. 

A mech, of all things. There was a reason for it, he knew, but he’d still take a good old six-shooter over that nonsense any day.

Hanzo disappears, and reappears a few minutes later in one of the balconies. McCree and Hana stick together, weaving their way through the crowds to the edge of the street for the best view. McCree catches himself glancing in Hanzo’s direction repeatedly, making sure that the man is within his sights. Hanzo may have already established himself as part of the team, but McCree had still yet to witness anything--even if he had no reason to distrust Hanzo, even actively liked him, McCree just couldn’t shut off that undercurrent of paranoia. 

The parade starts half an hour later, more a march than anything else. A couple of organizers armed with megaphones lead chants, ranging from  _ Omnic rights are people’s rights _ to the less creative  _ Hell no we won’t go _ , depending on where one stands in the march. McCree ignores most of it, his focus on the crowds, searching for the slightest sign of trouble. 

It remains uneventful for half an hour, and the march makes its way down the street unmolested, until--

“There is an unmarked vehicle pulling into the nearby side street,” Hanzo says over the comm. “ _ No plates, tinted windows, appears armored. _ ”

“There’s a truck like that over here, too,” says Hana. McCree turns and yes, down another narrow road, a large truck pulls in and comes to a halt. “I’ll bet you anything that it’s Talon, and the bomb’s on that truck.”

As if on cue, the doors on the truck swing open, and two heavily-geared soldiers hop out and move toward the back. The silvery logo of Talon is visible on their shoulders for just a brief second, which is more than enough to confirm.

“Shit,” mutters McCree, already reaching for his gun. “Get your mech ready then, Hana. We gotta move a lotta people.”

As it turns out, a large mech descending from the sky and landing with a crash right next to a small parade is a very effective method of grabbing attention. The crowds part around her with startled shouts and gasps. 

“Attention, everyone!” Hana announces over the mech’s speakers. She is unexpectedly authoritative, voice strong and commanding despite her earlier behavior. “We have reason to believe that there is a dangerous package in the area. Please stay calm and get ready to leave the area.”

While Hana handles the alarmed crowds, herding them into order to evacuate the streets, McCree pushes his way in the opposite direction toward the truck. Overhead, he sees Hanzo leap from one balcony to the next, bow already in hand. As soon as the area surrounding the side street is empty, the civilians far enough away that they won’t get caught in the crossfire, McCree draws his gun. 

“Fancy meetin’ you all here!” he calls as he approaches the truck. The two soldiers turn back to face him, assault rifles at the ready. “Don’t suppose you’d consider puttin’ that EMP away, would you?”

They open fire, which McCree counts as a no. 

He is quick to duck back outside the alley, hearing the bullets scrape off the stone walls on either side. He waits, waiting for a chance, then hears a dull thump and a shout. 

“ _ I will cover you _ ,” says Hanzo on the comm. McCree grins, pulls back the hammer on his gun, and rounds the corner again. 

One soldier is already down, gripping his bloodied thigh around the arrow embedded in his flesh. The other is taken down with two quick shots from Peacekeeper, but even as he falls, the back of the truck bursts open and two more are on the way. Hanzo takes one down with an arrow, but the other one flees as soon as his feet his the ground. 

“I got this one,” McCree says, already giving chase after the Talon agent. “Check out the truck, make sure it’s got what we’re looking for.”

“Understood,” Hanzo agrees, already sliding down the wall. 

McCree sprints down the alley after the fleeing soldier, gun at the ready. The alley is winding and full of trash cans debris, a veritable obstacle course--it’s impossible to get a clear shot. He hates when they do this. 

He rounds a corner and finds a dead end. The soldier is turned his way, rifle at the ready. McCree reaches for a flash bang, but before he can throw it, there’s a faint whistle overhead, and an arrow punctures the soldier’s chest. He crumples to the ground. McCree looks back and up. 

Overhead stands Hanzo, bow in hand, a smirk on his face. He’s lit from behind by a street lamp, glowing faintly like McCree’s very own guardian angel. 

“You seemed like you needed a hand,” Hanzo says lightly. 

“I had it under control,” McCree retorts, hooking the unused flash bang back on his belt. 

“I am sure you did. That is why you looked like you were going to be shot when I arrived, right?”

“All part of the plan.”

“ _ We’re all clear out here _ ,” Hana interrupts on the comm.

“Did the truck have the bomb on it?” McCree asks, craning his neck to continue looking up at Hanzo. He doesn’t mind the view, despite the crick.

“I did.”

“ _ I have Athena’s disarming key for the EMP, but we need to do it soon. _ ” 

“We’ll be right there,” McCree says. “Just hang tight. You did a good job.”

“ _ Thanks for the reassurance,  _ Dad _ , _ ” Hana says, and the comm goes silent. McCree ignores the mild insult and turns to Hanzo, who is looking over his bow for damage.

“Pretty handy with that bow,” McCree says as he holsters his gun. 

Hanzo looks at him. He seems almost doubtful, somehow, but give a nod of thanks. “You have some skill yourself,” he replies.

McCree knows he shouldn’t, but he does it anyway--he tips his hat, gives a cheeky smile, and asks, “Anything else you handy with?”

Hanzo gives him a flat glare and turns to leave. McCree chuckles--he knew Hanzo would not care for the bad flirting, but he couldn’t resist. 

“Hey,” McCree says, and Hanzo side-eyes him suspiciously. “All jokes aside, I’m glad we had you here. You’re a good fit.”

Hanzo looks surprised by the compliment, then, surprisingly, a touch embarrassed. “Thank you,” he says, avoiding eye contact as he does. 

McCree spares him any further embarrassment and claps him on the shoulder before heading for the shuttle. 

 

\--

 

As soon as the shuttle touches back down in Gibraltar, McCree slogs through the shower and sleeps for six hours--not quite a nap, not quite a proper sleep, but good enough for now. Hana talks about doing a game stream as soon as she gets back, and Hanzo doesn’t seem too worse for wear. McCree doesn’t know what’s wrong with him but isn’t about to deny himself the sleep. 

For once, he manages to sleep for more than two hours without having a nightmare. What replaces it is not much better, though for completely different reasons. Rather than horrifying visions of his old commanders or even older comrades from the Deadlocks, his dreams focus on Hanzo. It’s nothing explicit, though it feels like it--shots replayed from their mission today, watching Hanzo run and shoot with practiced ease, his body strong and graceful. It ends with Hanzo sauntering up to McCree, all wicked flirtation in movement and expression. He leans up into Jesse’s space, breath sweet with the smell of sake, and flattens a hand on his chest--

McCree wakes up before anything untoward happens, and doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He stares at the wall until he feels more capable of being an adult, checks the clock--5:14 PM--and throws back the covers.

Enough of the team tonight is on base that they’ve agreed to have a team dinner, which can happen a few times a week, so McCree expects someone else in the kitchen when he finally hauls himself out of bed again. Usually it’s Angela or Reinhardt, less frequently himself or someone else, but everyone takes their turn. Still, he’s more surprised than he should be when he sees Hanzo standing at the stove, with Genji leaning on the counter nearby to observe. 

“Ah, hello McCree,” says Genji. Hanzo glances up when he hears the greeting, and McCree fancies that Hanzo almost looks pleased to see him. “Welcome back to the realm of the living.”

“Thanks, I think.” McCree nudges past Genji to reach the coffee and the cups. Genji makes no effort to get out of the way. “Being helpful as always, I see.”

“I do my best.” 

With some effort, McCree manages to extract a cup and a pod of instant coffee from behind Genji’s head, and he shoves the lot into the automatic machine on the counter. While he waits, he peers past the brothers at the stove. “Didn’t know you could cook,” he says, catching Hanzo’s eye. 

“Of course I can,” says Hanzo, poking at a pot gently boiling with thin, off-white noodles. “Besides, it is soba. Hardly the most difficult thing to cook.”

McCree hums with interest. “Genji’s told me how you guys grew up,” he says. “Can’t blame me for thinkin’ you’d never seen a spatula before.”

“I am also a grown man who has taken care of himself in worse conditions for some time.”

“Alright, alright.” McCree puts his hands up in defeat and returns his attention to his coffee. Hanzo switches off the pot and moves to drain the noodles over the sink, then moves to retrieve a few other things from around the kitchen. “Just sayin’, I can cook but I learned before I left home. I didn’t eat so well when I was on the run.”

Genji snorts. “And it shows,” he teases, leaning over to poke the softness on McCree’s side.

McCree swats away his hand. “Hey now, that ain’t nice. Just because you’re built outta toothpicks don’t mean you gotta take it out on me.”

Hanzo looks over his shoulder then, directly at McCree. His dark gaze flickers down, lingering somewhere around McCree’s middle, before slowly dragging back up again. McCree has the feeling he is being assessed and judged for his middle-aged physique, but when Hanzo meets his eye again, he sees something almost . . . approving in his gaze. But before McCree can decide whether that’s the case or he’s just imagining it, Hanzo returns his attention to his cooking.

“You should cook for us again,” Genji says, blissfully unaware of McCree’s turmoil and Hanzo’s whatever-it-was. “You always did the best Mexican food, when you could be bothered to go to the kitchen.”

“Well, that ain’t how you ask a man to do somethin’, first off. But maybe sometime.”

“What I really miss is food from home, though,” Genji continues, sighing softly. “Do you remember the ramen shop outside the gates?”

Hanzo smiles down at the pot. “I do,” he replies. “We went there so often that the owner would predict when we would arrive.”

“She always said she missed seeing you, when you stopped going with me.”

“I am sure she missed our money more than me.”

“She could miss both.”

“Perhaps. I still maintain our cooks did the best  _ katsudon _ in the city, though.”

“Oh, they did  _ not _ . It was  _ good _ , I’ll give it that, but it definitely wasn’t the best and you know it, Hanzo.”

Hanzo laughs softly and lets the argument go. McCree gets the sense that this was a fight the brothers had had many times before, growing up. 

Hanzo crosses the room to the fridge, digs around for a moment, and comes back with a plastic container that, when opened, is full of a vibrant green paste. The scent of it is sharp, similar to horseradish. McCree peers into the container with doubt.

“What is this?” he asks. 

“Wasabi. It is part of the meal.”

“And that’s . . .”

“It is wasabi,” Hanzo repeats with a furrowed brow. “It is what it is.”

“It’s spicy,” Genji cuts in. “Really strong stuff. Not everyone cares for it, but it goes with soba sometimes.”

“Huh,” McCree says. “Bet it’s not that spicy.”

“It isn’t just that,” Genji warns, but McCree ignores him. 

“I would not,” Hanzo says as McCree digs a spoon out of a nearby drawer. “Wasabi is not meant to be eaten on its own.”

“Please. There ain’t a spicy I can’t handle,” McCree retorts. He grins and adds, “Bet you I can eat more of it, in fact.”

Hanzo presses his lips into a thin line. He does not respond either way. Undeterred, McCree carves out a large spoonful of the wasabi and sticks it in his mouth without hesitation. 

It takes about four seconds for him to regret his decision. 

It takes like horseradish but somehow even sharper, hot and utterly abrasive in a way that even raw peppers aren’t. It sears McCree’s pallet and burns through his sinuses, like flames licking at the delicate mucous membranes. He coughs once, then again, somehow worsening all of the sensations as he does and sending it straight down his throat, where it proceeds aggravate his poor trachea.

“Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ,” he coughs, dropping the spoon on the counter. He can feel his eyes welling with tears, everything from his cheeks to the tips of his ears burning red. “Shit, you were right--” 

Then he hears Hanzo laugh.

Genji’s laughing too, amused at McCree’s despair, but he hadn’t expected to hear Hanzo laugh. It’s not a chuckle--it’s a full-bodied peal of laughter from the chest, genuine mirth instead of derisive amusement. When McCree manages to look up, squinting through the tears, he gets to see Hanzo mid-laugh, clutching his gut with one hand, covering his eyes with the other in disbelief.

“You are,” Hanzo gasps, “truly an idiot, McCree.” He laughs a few more times, shakes his head, and pulls his hand from his eyes to look at McCree properly. “I did not even agree to the bet. Wasabi isn’t meant to be eaten that way. What were you thinking?”

McCree finds he doesn’t have an answer for that. He almost doesn’t mind that Hanzo’s laughing at him, because it’s the first time he’s heard it. 

“Lesson learned,” he says, gulping down half of his neglected coffee to wash away the taste still burning on his tongue. 

  
  


\--

 

After the wasabi fiasco, and after dinner is completed and eaten without any further embarrassment, McCree considers his options. He could go to the ranges and put in yet more hours, or clean his gun instead. Or he could sleep, which sounds appealing in the way it always does. He always feels like this after a mission, somehow restless but exhausted, and it always frustrates him.

“McCree,” says Hanzo, exiting the kitchen as he dries his hands on a towel. Washing the dishes after he cooked, because he’s responsible. Of course. “Are you free? I would like to discuss our last mission for our reports.”

McCree nearly leaps 

Their conversation had  _ started _ with Hanzo approaching McCree after dinner to talk about their mission write-ups, but it hadn’t taken long for McCree to distract him into actually relaxing.

“Five credits says I can make that shot from here,” McCree says, raising his empty beer can in the direction of the recycling bin twenty feet away. 

“No,” says Hanzo, not looking up from his tablet. 

“No?”

“You are a decent marksman. I am more than certain that you can make the throw, and I am not interested in losing money.”

McCree huffs and throws the can anyway. It sails across the room, clips the edge of the bin, and skitters off into the corner. “Damn. See, you would’ve made money on that one.”

Hanzo glances up, sees the can, and chuckles. “Perhaps,” he agrees. “But I know when to avoid a risk.”

“Maybe. But sometimes takin’ a risk is half the fun.” McCree gets to his feet. “Want another drink?”

“Please.” 

As it turns out, even Hanzo can relax when plied with a bit of alcohol.

McCree smiles privately at the thought as he drops back into his seat, offering one of the beers to Hanzo. “So,” he says. “How’re you likin’ Overwatch so far?”

Hanzo pauses before he answers. The beer can gives a quiet hiss as he pops it open. “I suppose I like it enough,” he says. “It has not been long.”

“Good. See? Wasn’t so bad joinin’ up with us, was it.”

Hanzo does not answer, but there’s a hint of an answering smile on his face, so McCree counts it as a win. “What’d you think about this last mission?

“What about it? It is another mission. It is not my first.” 

“Nah, but London’s nice.” McCree taps his finger against the can, filling the air between the two of them with a dull clinking noise. “Besides. The thing with Mondatta’s one of the things that kicked off the Recall, I think. London’s a bit of a hot spot. Lena’s been real worried about it lately.”

“So I have heard.” Hanzo taps something on his tablet and sets it aside, finally. He has been looking at the mission details and maps of King’s Row for the entire past hour, even though by now he has to have memorized everything. His focus is admirable, and not just a little bit intimidating.

The mention of Mondatta reminds McCree of something else. He takes a moment before he speaks, considering what words will keep from scaring Hanzo into bolting. “So how’s everything else? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

“What else?” Hanzo’s shoulders stiffen, a rigid line. 

“Well, I know you came up here for Genji . . .” McCree trails off, worried that anything else will cause Hanzo to flee. 

But, to his surprise, Hanzo remains precisely where he is. He takes a long draft from his beer before he answers, “Awful. But no worse than I expected, given the circumstances.”

“That’s . . . good?”

“For a given definition of good, perhaps.” Hanzo inhales deeply through his nose, drinks again. “But I should not complain. I am the reason he is the way he is. He has already shown me more grace than I deserve in not killing me as soon as I arrived. Or sooner.”

McCree grimaces. “I guess.” He drinks, too, and looks at the wall across the way. 

“If it makes any difference,” he adds after a moment, “I know Genji’s happy to have you around again.”

“I doubt that  _ happy _ is the word for it.”

“No, it is,” McCree insists. “He wouldn’t’ve brought you here if he didn’t.”

The corner of Hanzo’s mouth pulls down in a grimace, but he does not argue. He drinks again and sets his beer down in his lap, scraping his thumbnail against the can. 

“Genji has mentioned,” he says slowly, addressing the far wall, “that his . . . master is an omnic. One who knew Mondatta well.”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Genji’s talked about him a bit. Sounds like Zenyatta did some good for him.”

“It would seem so.” Hanzo sighs shortly. “He has mentioned a few times, now, how he . . . feels like an outcast. Even among omnics, though he seems more comfortable among them now. I cannot help but think of my role in this, whenever we must discuss London or omnics.”

McCree nods once, understanding. “Bet that’s hard,” he says. 

“To put it mildly.” Hanzo shakes his head, drains the rest of his beer, and turns a rueful smile McCree’s way. “My apologies. I asked you to join me to finish our reports, not to complain to you yet again.”

“Hey, no need to apologize. I get it.”

“So you say, but that does not mean you exist to help me with my problems.” Hanzo picks up his tablet again. “I think we are nearly done, if you would help me finalize these last few details.”

As soon as the report is finished, Hanzo leaves, excusing himself to go to bed. McCree  lazes around for awhile until he finally feels like dragging himself off to the dorms, too, and finally hauls himself off the couch and out of the rec room.

Genji appears silently beside him and says, “So what are your intentions with my brother?”

McCree manages not to jump straight out of his skin, but it’s a near thing. “What intentions?” he asks, willing his heart rate to slow. “What are you even doin’ here?”

“I just wanted to say hello, and I do not know what intentions. That is why I am asking.” Genji leans against the doorway. “He is fond of you and you seem to be of him. So I want to know.”

McCree laughs. “Ain’t any intentions to have,” he says. “I’m surprised Hanzo even looks twice at me most days.”

Genji has his visor off tonight, as he sometimes does when he is feeling comfortable, so McCree gets to watch as Genji rolls his eyes skyward. “You do not know my brother,” he says. “The way he talks to you is practically his version of throwing himself at you.”

“I doubt that.” Not that that doesn’t light a spark in McCree’s gut to think about. Hanzo’s a  _ very _ attractive man; the only thing stopping McCree from actually giving it a try is the fact that he’s pretty sure Hanzo would hurl him out a window if he went too far. But that’s all, really, a bit of base attraction and a casual regard for the man. Seems a bit early to be getting the third-degree from the protective brother, considering he’s only been talking to Hanzo--awkwardly at that--for three weeks . . . vaguely arousing dreams aside. 

“You know how difficult he is,” Genji says. He shrugs a little. “He has always been that way. He is rarely comfortable with anybody, and I think he has been struggling since I brought him here. That he is so friendly with you is a little unusual.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m just bein’ friendly. I’m not plannin’ to ravish him any time soon, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Genji makes a slight face, the expression of any sibling forced to acknowledge their sibling’s private life. “‘Worried’ is not the word I would use.”

“Listen, Hanzo’s a grown man. You probably don’t need to hover. Even if something  _ were _ to come along like that, I wouldn’t push it and he’s perfectly capable of--”

“I trust you,” Genji interrupts calmly. McCree realizes he’s tensing his shoulders, unconsciously defensive, and forces himself to relax again. Genji continues with a little shrug, “But things are--difficult with us, as you can imagine. I want him to find happiness again, but I can only offer him so much. If he has a friend in you, then I am glad.”

McCree quickly deflates, anger vanishing as quickly as it came. “I dunno about friend,” he says. 

“Acquaintance, then. Whichever you like. Either way, he needs someone to show him this kindness.” Genji shrugs, although McCree can sense the casualness is affected. “Get some rest, McCree. It is late.”

Genji departs, and McCree is left feeling just a little off-kilter. He goes to bed unsure what he thinks, both about Genji’s words and about himself. 

\--

 

McCree volunteers to cook the next day, much to Angela’s surprise. 

“I’m not sure I should let you,” she teases, relinquishing her spot in front of the cupboards to McCree. “I’m worried about what’s gotten into you.”

“I got a score to settle,” McCree says as he rolls up his sleeves. “Not with you,” he quickly adds, seeing Angela’s vaguely alarmed expression. “With a certain archer who’s bein’ a pain in my ass.”

“Of course.” Angela rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Far be it for me to get in the way of your strange vengeance. I have some work to do, anyway.”

“You know me well, Angie. Don’t forget to eat again.”

McCree sets to work. Mamá had the best recipe for enchiladas that he hasn’t shared with this team yet, and it’s the perfect vehicle for as much spice as one can fit into a tortilla. He makes most of the batch normal, so as not to terrorize the entire team, but the three on the end get a hefty dose of chili mixed into the sauce. 

It’s a little more effort than he would normally expend, but it’s worth it, in the end, when he gets to set two plates down on the table between himself and Hanzo and say, “Let’s try this again. Bet I can definitely handle more heat than you.”

Hanzo accepts the bet without a moment’s hesitation. He makes an admirable job of pretending the heat doesn’t bother him for half the meal--until he spits out a vicious swear and drops his fork with a clatter. 

“What did you do to this?” he demands, scrubbing pained tears from his eyes on the back of his wrist. “How can anyone possibly enjoy something this terrible--”

McCree chuckles and carefully sets down his own fork. Admittedly, the heat was far more than he preferred, but he only had to last a little longer than Hanzo. “I told you,” he says, even though he feels his face warming rapidly. He half-expects to break out into a sweat himself. “Ain’t no spice that’s too much for me.”

“God,” Hanzo gasps, and then he’s laughing, still wiping away tears on the heel of his palm, reaching toward his water glass half-blind. He’s embarrassed and in pain, yet still laughing. 

“You are a ridiculous man, Jesse McCree,” Hanzo says, shaking his head. He smiles, eyes watery and face pink, across the table at McCree. “Utterly ridiculous.”

McCree’s heart flutters under his ribs, not at all unpleasantly. He recognizes it for what it is immediately, and has to bite back a swear. McCree’s an observant man when it comes to others, always has been, but when it comes to himself, well--it’s not the first time he’s been surprised by a little crush.

He knows it’s going to be trouble, because hell--he’s never fancied someone who didn’t give him a little bit of trouble. He thinks of the conversation he had with Genji not twenty-four hours earlier and wonders if perhaps he spoke too soon. 

Either way, he’ll have to squash that feeling before it can take root, stop it before it causes any real problems. But for now, he savors that warm feeling in his chest and replies, “There are worse things to be.”

Hanzo drinks his water, dabs at his mouth with a napkin, and makes a visible effort to compose himself again. His smile takes on a thoughtful air, but never falters. 

“There are,” he agrees. “There are much worse things to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun note/covering-my-butt-so-I-don't-get-messages note: Most wasabi isn't real wasabi! The more common stuff is a horseradish mix because real wasabi is hard to get hold of. Which means McCree's PROBABLY not eating the real stuff, and Hanzo is probably aware of this, but I didn't really want to write a screed about wasabi in the middle of things.
> 
> I . . . had to google wasabi about fourteen times for this.


	4. Chapter 4

McCree’s phone buzzes in his pocket while he is involved in a long game of cards between himself, Lena, and Genji. He ignores it at first, too focused on watching the others. 

Lena has no poker face to speak of, but is bright and unpredictable enough to still make the game interesting. Genji wears a literal mask, which provides an extra layer of challenge. McCree knows he’s good at poker, which is why he plays with people he doesn’t know he can beat. He’s managed to hold his own through the last three rounds, but worries that if he lets himself get distracted, he’s going to start losing real money. And dignity. 

“Do you need to get that, McCree?” Genji asks, his tone carefully light. 

“It can wait.”

Lena takes a card out of her hand, makes a face at it, and tosses it in the discard pile. Genji glances up at McCree, saying nothing, and discards three of his own. McCree chews on the end of his cigarillo, catches himself, and stops. 

“So,” he starts, eyes glued to his cards. He has a pair of queens in his hand, but he can’t decide if it’s enough to warrant raising his bet when the time comes. He discards an 8 and a 3 of spades, figuring he’ll try for three-of-a-kind or, if he’s really lucky, a full house with the 10 that remains. “How was everyone’s last mission?”

“Pretty boring,” Lena says immediately. She deals out replacement cards for everyone from the deck. McCree ends up with an ace and a 3 of hearts, which are completely useless. He’ll have to hope his pair of queens is good enough. “We thought Talon might try again at another omnic rally, but it was really small and they never showed.”

“That’s a good thing, though.”

“I mean, yeah, but it was still boring.”

His phone buzzes again. McCree starts to worry that it’s actually important. The only notifications that are ever that persistent are from Overwatch; he doesn’t receive texts or calls but once in a blue moon, even here. 

Lena raises the bet by two credits. McCree grumbles and matches it. 

“I ended up doing a supply run with my brother,” says Genji. “Even less interesting.”

“You guys spent more than half an hour alone and didn’t kill each other? I’m impressed,” McCree replies. 

“It was not so bad, actually.” Genji tosses another two credits into the pot, also matching. 

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Things are getting a little better. Not perfect, but I do not expect that yet. It may not ever happen. But I forgot how much I missed just talking with him, so it was . . . nice.”

The phone buzzes one more time. McCree sighs and slaps his cards down on the table. “I can only assume that’s Winston,” he mutters, while Genji laughs softly at him. He digs the phone out of his pocket and confirms with a glance that it is, in fact, from Winston: a notice about a new assignment, which refused to be ignored until he acknowledged it. There was probably a reason it was programmed that way.

“Something important?” asks Genji. He leans his elbows on the table, still perfectly composed.

“Assignment, yeah. Winston wants me in a briefing.” McCree casts a forlorn look at his hand of cards on the table. “I think I’m gonna have to call it after this one.”

“You’re only saying because you’re losing,” Lena teases. 

“You wanna explain to Winston why I’m ignorin’ him for cards, then?”

“Nah. But you know it’s true.” Lena grins and lays out her hand. Her cards are a textbook royal flush, easily beating out McCree’s hand--and by the noise Genji makes, his as well.

“Well. I’ll be damned.” McCree shakes his head. “Since when did you get good at poker?”

“Pure luck,” Genji insists. “She has never actually won before. That or she cheated. You can mess with time, so how do we know that you did not?”

“You both are just bad losers.” Lena gathers up the cards, a smile on her face as she puts the deck back together. “And you both owe me now. Don’t think I’ll forget, either.”

“Yeah, yeah,” McCree grumbles. He gets to his feet. “I’ll let the two of you sort that out while I go see what’s up.”

“You’d better pay me before you leave on that mission!”

McCree waves over his shoulder as he goes. 

The walk from the rec room to the comm room isn’t too lengthy, but is just long enough to be a nuisance. McCree takes his time and wonders what kind of assignment it’ll be today. He hopes it’s something interesting. Most of his other work so far has been minor missions--London was the closest he’d gotten to something good, and even that involved a lot of waiting around and some payload-watching. Then again, he supposes, he can hardly expect the same level of excitement he had while he was in Blackwatch. 

Can hardly expect much at all, considering how little they have to work with.

When he arrives, he is surprised to see that there are only two others in the room, seated at the round conference table: Winston, by necessity, and Hanzo. McCree’s stomach gives that little flutter, which he ignores. Another mission with Hanzo, then. That’s worth losing a hand of poker or two. 

“Ah, there you are,” says Winston, adjusting his glasses primly on his nose. “Good. That means we can get started.”

McCree shares a glance with Hanzo, who looks as confused as he is. “We the only ones?” he asks. “Seems like a small team.”

“It is, but there’s a reason for it.” Winston gestures to the table, and McCree sits beside Hanzo. “I need the two of you to keep an eye on someone, and that’s easier done with a pair.”

“Sounds excitin’.” Winston drops his gaze to his tablet for a moment. McCree takes the opportunity to lean over toward Hanzo. “Looks like it’s just you and me on a romantic getaway,” he murmurs. “What do you say?”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he is smiling. “That is hardly appropriate,” he replies. 

“That’s not a no.”

“Actually,” Winston says, “that is part of it.” 

“What? How.”

Winston swipes at his tablet, sending an image to project from the tabletop’s holographic generator. A tall, dark-skinned woman stands proudly from the table’s surface, looking unimpressed by her surroundings. “This is Dr. Shepard. She’s an expert in prosthetic and related technologies. Rumor has it that she’s taken an interest in work very similar to what Dr. Ziegler did with Genji. This is who I want you to watch, during a small event that will be taking place in Numbani in a few days.”

Hanzo’s face turns stony. A muscle flexes subtly in his jaw, evidence that he is clenching his teeth. McCree is surprised--is it the mere mention of Genji that has turned his mood so quickly? 

But the moment quickly passes as Hanzo schools himself again, expression carefully neutral once more. 

“What for?” McCree asks. “Think she’s meetin’ with Talon?”

“No, but I do think Talon has taken an interest in her, for obvious reasons. They’ve already stolen tech from us before, so I wouldn’t put it past them to go after hers.” Winston sighs, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “I know one of them has tech modeled after the chronal accelerator I made for Tracer . . .”

“So we will monitor her meetings,” Hanzo concludes. 

“Yes. There’s a couple of small gatherings happening across two days in Numbani, with her and several other scientists. The first will be held at a restaurant there. The second is on the following night, when they’ll be holding presentations about their work. I need the two of you to keep an eye out, and get her to safety if something should happen.”

“That does not explain what you meant by the ‘romantic’ part, though,” Hanzo says, echoing McCree’s thoughts. McCree has a suspicion, though, which is confirmed a moment later. 

“Yes, well. I thought it would be best for the two of you to go undercover as a . . . couple,” Winston says. “You will need to interact with hotel and restaurant staff, as well as get close to Dr. Shepard without being noticed, and I figure this will be the easiest way.”

McCree’s heart starts to race. This is hardly the first time he’s ever done such a thing--it really is a convenient cover, at times, and one of the best ways to pull at a civilian’s heartstrings is to feign puppy love--but that had been years ago, and never with anyone he actually had an interest in. His mind is already spinning with the potential this mission presents. 

He quashes it quickly. He can’t just use a mission to throw himself at Hanzo under the guise of doing a job, no matter how badly he might like to. 

Next to him, Hanzo says, “If you think that is best.” He gives no indication how he feels about the matter, positive or otherwise. 

“I do. I’m sure the two of you can handle it in a professional manner,” Winston replies. He sets aside his tablet, and Dr. Shepard’s image disappears from the projector. “I’d like for the two of you to leave tomorrow morning. You’ll be at the restaurant the next day, and in another hotel the evening after, so you’ll have some time to settle in and get a feel for the area.”

Then Winston grins, and he adds, “Take your time. It’s not every day you get to go on a date for the greater good.”

 

\--

 

“Well, here we are,” McCree says as he opens the front door. “Home, sweet home.”

Hanzo makes a face. He’s trying not to, McCree can tell, but he’s making a face nonetheless. 

McCree doesn’t blame him though. The hotel suite Winston arranged for them for the mission is a cramped, drab one-bedroom space, despite the building’s appearances. There’s a small kitchen right next to the front door, the bedroom and bathroom down a short corridor on the other side, and the living room is barely large enough for them to both stand in side-by-side. The furniture consists of a couch in the middle of the room, a TV on the opposite wall, and a long wooden desk underneath the window, all sparse but functional. Still, though, he’s stayed in worse, so he won’t complain. 

“I see Winston would like us to take our roles seriously,” Hanzo says dryly. McCree follows his gaze to the bedroom, where there is only one bed visible through the open door.

“I can take the couch,” McCree offers, setting down his duffel on the aforementioned furniture. The couch is a stiff-looking thing of polished black leather, but as long as it’s horizontal and at least slightly softer than the floor, he can sleep on it. 

“Are you certain?” asks Hanzo. He turns to lock the door behind them, checking the lock twice. “

“Yeah. I’m used to sleepin’ wherever. You, on the other hand, look like you can’t sleep on anything less than the finest feather mattress--”

Hanzo throws one of his tactical packs at him, which hits him squarely in the shoulder. It bounces off painlessly and falls to the floor. “I’m keepin’ this now,” says McCree as he bends to pick it up.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Then don’t throw shit at me!”

It doesn’t take long to get settled into their new base of operations. McCree lays claim to the couch by dropping his boots in front of it and his serape over the back. Hanzo neatly leaves his things in the bedroom, though he strings his bow and sets it and his quiver against the wall within easy reach in the living room. McCree throws together a mediocre dinner with a box of bowtie pasta and a jar of marinara sauce that he finds in the pre-stocked cabinets, and he and Hanzo eat together in relative silence while they go over their own notes for tomorrow’s assignment. 

Once McCree’s done eating, and satisfied that he can’t possibly memorize the layout of a restaurant any better, he tosses aside his tablet.

“You know what we haven’t done?” he asks. He reaches over into his duffel, digging through until his hands hits cool glass.

Hanzo glances up at him with mild interest. “A great many things, although I suspect you have something in mind.”

McCree snorts. “We haven’t had a proper drinkin’ bet, is what I’m sayin’,” he replies. He pulls out the bottle of whiskey he had stashed away in his bag, just in case. “What do you say? See which one of us holds his liquor better?”

Hanzo looks skeptically at the bottle, then at McCree. “We are on an assignment,” he says. “We should not be getting drunk.”

“Aw, c’mon. We don’t gotta go anywhere until tomorrow night. That’s plenty of time for a few drinks. And for sleepin’ it off.”

“There will be time for drinking when the job is done.”

“There’s time for drinkin’  _ now _ . Winston even said we got tonight to ourselves. We’re not movin’ out until the restaurant tomorrow night.” McCree gets to his feet, and makes his way into the kitchen to dig through the cabinets. There isn’t much in them, only a few non-perishables and the most basic of dishes. He finds a stack of biodegradable plastic cups and brings two back into the living room. 

“Unless,” he continues, opening the bottle and listening to the satisfying crackle of the plastic seal, “you think you can’t keep up with me.”

Hanzo’s nostrils flare agitatedly, and McCree knows he’s won. Sometimes, it’s difficult to convince Hanzo to do anything. Other times, it’s far too easy.

After a long moment of deliberation, Hanzo holds his hand out for a cup. “Fine,” he says. “We will see who cannot keep up with whom. What are the rules?”

“Nothin’ much. Just gotta match drinks over the course of the night. First one to give up loses.” McCree pours a healthy measure of whiskey in one cup and passes it over. Once he pours his own and turns back, he looks up to see Hanzo tilt his head back to throw the entire drink in one swallow. His throat bobs with the motion, pulling McCree’s attention briefly to the long line of his throat.

Hanzo looks at him with a smirk. “Keep up,” he says. 

“Shit. If you drink like that the entire night, you’re gonna make yourself sick.” McCree tosses back his drink and pours them both another.

“Do not worry about me.”

_ Hard to do anything but _ , McCree thinks, and resists the urge to down his second drink as quickly as the first. 

Hanzo turns on some mundane show on the apartment’s small TV. McCree watches with mild interest, but his attention is on both his drinking and on Hanzo. 

“You ready for tomorrow?” he asks, just to fill the silence. 

“As much as I can be, I suppose. Other than getting drunk beforehand.”

McCree snorts into his cup. “Other than that, then. You’re . . . okay with the cover Winston set up for us?”

Hanzo shrugs. “It is a job like any other,” he says. “I am not bothered by it.” A pause, then he asks, “Why? Are you?”

“Nah, not at all. Ain’t the first time I’ve done it. But I was also a Blackwatch agent and did all sorts of covert ops.” McCree thinks back to those past years and adds, “Actually think I ran one with Genji once. Real short mission, but that happened.”

“I am sure he enjoyed that.”

“You know, I couldn’t tell.” Just like he can’t tell now how Hanzo feels about the matter. With anyone else, McCree wouldn’t give it a second thought, but he’s frustrated now that he can’t suss out even a fraction of Hanzo’s thoughts. Maybe it really doesn’t matter to him. Or worse, maybe he’s disgusted by the plan, and is only feigning neutrality to hide the fact.

McCree takes a deeper drink than he should, just to distract himself.

They lapse back into a comfortable silence, the television providing a backdrop of noise. It’s pleasant, relaxing even: just the two of them drinking together on the couch, forgetting for a little while their jobs and their worries. 

“Tell me something,” says Hanzo, addressing his cup. They are both on their third rounds, now. McCree’s is pleasantly light-headed, moving from his easy buzz to properly drunk with every sip. He  _ knows _ Hanzo has to be feeling it, too, but other than a faint pink flush to his cheeks, he gives no indication. 

“What?”

Hanzo licks his lips. “My brother. When he first came to Overwatch--what was he like?”

The questions makes McCree start. “Well, uh, that’s a loaded question there,” he says slowly. “I’m not sure--”

“I am not looking for something to make me feel better,” Hanzo interrupts. He shakes his head. “Genji will not tell me what happened. He is very vague about that time.”

“It’s not a happy story, Hanzo.”

“I am aware. I am asking for your honesty.” Hanzo scrapes his thumb down the ridges of the plastic cup, making a soft clicking noise with his nail. “Please.”

McCree watches him for a long moment. “Alright,” he agrees, slouching back in his seat. He looks up at the ceiling as he considers how to start. 

“He was angry,” he finally says. “Real angry, almost all the time. I’d been in Blackwatch for about ten years when he showed up, I think. Gabe took a bit of an interest in him, got him into Blackwatch, too, so I saw him a lot. Not real talkative, though. Wouldn’t tell us a damn thing about what happened to him. We figured it out after a while, since Overwatch was in Japan in the first place and picked him up, but still.”

Hanzo is quiet, but he nods once, indicating that he’s listening. McCree takes another deep drink and continues, “I think he only stuck to Overwatch because he kind of had to, at least in the beginning. Angela needed to monitor her handiwork, and it took months of physical therapy and tweakin’ before he was in good shape again. Seemed like he was in a lot of pain, real frustrated with everythin’.”

“I suppose I should not be surprised,” Hanzo murmurs, more to himself than to McCree. 

“Yeah. I mean, gettin’ nearly killed by your brother, then gettin’ turned into a cyborg without really having a say in it, that’s enough to mess up anyone.” Hanzo winces, and McCree feels a pang of regret for being so blunt. “But, he got through it. Was still pretty angry the whole time, but he got a bit better. He was a good friend of mine, before we both left. Came to thank Angela for savin’ him, eventually.”

“That is . . . good.”

“And then he met that Zenyatta fella, and then, well, he’s doing pretty okay now, I think.” McCree chuckles and adds, “Shoulda seen how he dressed for the first few years, though.”

“How he dressed?”

“All black and grey and red, had red eyes somehow. For some reason didn’t cover up the left half of his chest or his arm. His hair was green when he started.”

“I’m not sure you have any room to speak,” Hanzo says. He reaches up to tweak the edge of McCree’s serape draped on the couch. 

“Wha--neither do you! You got your head half-shaved!”

“That is irrelevant.”

“No it ain’t!”

Hanzo laughs, and it’s a little higher than normal, just hinting at the alcohol he’s consumed. But he quickly sobers again, mirth short-lived. He hesitates for a long moment before asking, “Did he ever mention me?”

McCree chews the inside of his lip before answering. “Yeah. He wasn’t fond of you for awhile. Or the rest of your family.”

“I see.”

“But, listen,” McCree continues, sensing that this conversation could turn even more morose, “that’s in the past now. Genji’s doin’ a lot better now, and so are you. You’re patchin’ things up. That’s more than I can say I ever did after I turned around.”

“Things would not need patching, if not for me.”

“Yeah, but the fact is that you’re doing better. And by the sound of it, your family really didn’t leave you with a choice. It was fucked up, but it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that you’re both moving on. You’re not a bad man, Hanzo.”

Hanzo still looks unconvinced. McCree finishes off his drink and reaches for the bottle.

“C’mon,” he says, pouring himself a fourth and holding the bottle out to Hanzo. “We still got a bet to settle, don’t we? Can’t keep up with me if you’re sulkin’ around.” He nods to Hanzo’s cup, which still has a bit of whiskey left. “Finish that and get another. Unless you think you’re done already?”

This is enough to catch Hanzo’s attention. He lifts his cup, eyes the remaining contents, and tosses it back in a single swallow. “Fine,” he says, holding the cup out for a refill. The corner of his mouth turns up with the barest hint of a smile. “You are correct. I cannot beat you if I’m distracted.”

“There you go,” McCree replies approvingly. He fills Hanzo’s cup, then taps the edge of his own cup against Hanzo’s in a sorry toast. “To movin’ on. And kickin’ your ass.”

“Or yours,” Hanzo adds.

“Or mine. Maybe. Not likely.”

“We shall see.”

 

\--

 

McCree opens his eyes in the morning, then immediately screws them shut again. 

“Fuck,” he groans. The sound of his own voice grates on his eardrums, adding to the pounding headache that has already formed and the low current of nausea in his stomach. He has made a very grave error. Not in the mission--he’ll sleep this off before tonight, he’s not worried about that--no, he’s made an error in somehow forgetting that he’s closer to 40 than not and that hangovers happen. 

With his eyes closed, McCree carefully takes stock of where he is. He’s stretched out on the couch, he can tell, but by the crick in his neck, he didn’t do so in the most comfortable position. His body hates him, which is not a surprise. There’s something soft under his head, so he must have gotten a pillow before he passed out, at least. 

He tries to think back to the night before, but everything after pouring their fourth rounds is a blur. He remembers talking for some time after the conversation about Genji and Blackwatch, Hanzo’s drunken laughter ringing high and pleasant, and then . . . not much at all, until he woke up. 

There’s a little noise somewhere next to him. McCree snaps his eyes open and realizes, with not a small amount of alarm, that the sound came from Hanzo, who is just above him. From there, he observes that the soft thing under his head is not a pillow, but Hanzo’s muscled thigh. 

Willing himself not to react, McCree carefully turns his head to look up. Hanzo is slouched in the corner of the couch, sleeping soundly, unaware of McCree in his lap. A plastic cup with the last dredges of whiskey sits on the arm of the couch. He has one arm tucked under his head for support against the back of the couch, and his other--and McCree can’t believe it took so long to notice--draped casually over McCree’s shoulder and chest. 

McCree breathes deeply, in and out. It was a complete accident, he reminds himself. No way Hanzo would have simply allowed this. Regardless of how comfortable he is, and how tempted he is to simply turn his head toward Hanzo’s belly and fall back asleep, he needs to get up and remove himself from the situation. Even though the thought of leaving makes his chest ache. 

He turns slowly, getting his elbow underneath him, and Hanzo grunts softly. Then he opens his eyes, appears to spend a moment orienting himself, and looks directly down at McCree.

“Hello,” McCree says.

Hanzo’s only reaction is to raise his eyebrows. “Hello,” he says. 

“Sorry, uh--I woke up like this, I wasn’t just tryin’ to--” McCree starts, scrambling to get up. The sudden movement makes his head spin, and he stops on his hands and knees and tries not to throw up on Hanzo’s leg. 

“It is fine,” Hanzo assures. He takes back his arm, leaving McCree cold and disappointed. “I do not even remember falling asleep here.”

“Me neither.” Not that McCree hadn’t enjoyed it, for the minute or so he was aware. 

Hanzo drops his head into his hand, eyes closed, and mutters a swear under his breath. “We should not have done this.”

“It’s fine. S’fine. We’ll be better by tonight.”

“But is it worth it  _ now _ .”

“Oh, god, I really don’t know.” Urge to vomit suppressed, McCree pushes himself into a sitting position, only to fall back into the other corner. “Do you know who won?”

“The bet? No. I know only regret.”

McCree drags himself off the couch, grabs his duffel bag by the strap, and pulls it along the floor behind him to the bathroom. A long, hot shower makes him feel a little more human, along with brushing his teeth and downing four ibuprofen with a glass of water. Still, it’s only a marginal improvement, and he looks forward to making the greasiest breakfast he can and then sleeping for another six hours. 

When he exits the bathroom, he is greeted by the tantalizing smell of bacon frying. Hanzo stands at the stove, poking idly at a pan of bacon and another of fried eggs. He looks like he’d rather being doing anything but stand, but is powering through nonetheless for the promise of food.

“Oh, darlin’, you’re a lifesaver,” McCree breathes. He doubles back, fetches more ibuprofen and water, and brings it to the kitchen. “Here. Payment for breakfast. And I hope you’re frying the eggs in the bacon fat, ‘cause I need that this morning.”

“That sounds incredibly unhealthy,” says Hanzo, accepting the medication with an outstretched hand. 

“Not much worse than drinkin’ most of a bottle of whiskey in a night.”

Hanzo swallows his ibuprofen, stares at the stove, and picks up the bacon pan to pour the grease in with the eggs. McCree laughs softly, wary of his aching head, and moves around Hanzo to make coffee.

They eat breakfast together, crammed into opposite ends of the couch, mutually complaining about their horrendous hangovers and making promises never to drink again (at least, not until next weekend). They bicker playfully about who has to do the dishes (McCree argues that he didn’t make the mess so he shouldn’t have to, which Hanzo counters by saying that the cook should not also have to clean), and neither of them get around to washing anything. It’s comfortable, almost domestic, pleasant and familiar in a way that McCree doesn’t want to examine too closely. 

Hanzo eventually concedes the bed to McCree so he can nap away the afternoon. When five o’clock rolls around, McCree finally feels like he’s functioning at full capacity, and the idea of a mission no longer disgusts and distresses him. He ventures back out in search of his duffel bag, and stops up short. 

Hanzo, of course, has already gotten ready, and is making minute adjustments in the mirror hanging by the door to the suite. He is dressed in a dark, fitted suit, with a jacket that sits perfectly across the broad line of his shoulders and slacks just tight enough to hit at the slim, strong legs--among other things--beneath. He has done something with his hair to slick all of it back into a bun, with only a couple of strands hanging gracefully over his brow. His tie is a deep burgundy, a color that brightens the dark brown of his eyes to a warm coffee shade as he meets McCree’s gaze in the mirror.

“Is there something I can help you with, McCree?” Hanzo asks, a hint of a smirk on his face.

“Nope,” McCree answers, too quickly, and crosses the room for his bag. “Just never seen you dressed like that before.”

“Well, a suit is hardly appropriate for fighting.”

“Still.” Not that McCree can’t imagine Hanzo with his bow in hand, dressed in the suit with his jacket unbuttoned, hair attractively disheveled . . .

McCree ducks back into the bathroom with his bag before he can embarrass himself further. 

His own undercover outfit is similar, a charcoal-gray suit with a bolo tie, rather than a traditional one. He reminds himself that this isn’t a real date even as he spends just a few extra minutes in the bathroom, combing his hair back into something presentable and trimming his beard. He just wants to look nice and there’s nothing wrong with that--except that excuse is fake even to him. 

Still, he catches Hanzo giving him an appreciative glance when he thinks McCree isn’t looking, which sends a little thrill through McCree’s heart.

 

\--

 

Winston has already arranged for a rental car to take them to the restaurant. McCree takes over driving, and Hanzo reviews the layout of the area on his tablet as they make their way downtown. When they arrive, McCree parks, steps out of the car, and crosses quickly so that he can open the door for Hanzo. He gives Hanzo a cheeky grin as he does.

“Ready for our date, darlin’?” he asks, making Hanzo roll his eyes.

“It is not a date,” he reminds him as he stands. “It is a mission.”

“A mission that requires us to go on a date.”

Hanzo smacks his shoulder with the back of his hand. Then, to McCree’s surprise, he offers his arm in true gentlemanly fashion. “Shall we, then?” he asks, a glimmer of amusements in his eyes. 

“I guess so.” McCree takes more pleasure than he should in linking his arm with Hanzo’s, pressing himself up against Hanzo’s side by necessity. He fancies that they do look like a pleasant couple, simply out for dinner on a Thursday evening. He fights down a smile. Hanzo’s expression is, as always, neutral. 

The restaurant is a small, cozy place, all dark colors and tables of warm, polished wood. A bar sits at the back of the restaurant, easily visible and accessible, and the tables are dotted around the remaining space. Soft music plays overhead from a hidden PA system. 

The omnic  _ maitre d’ _ at the front table is dressed in a masculine-looking waistcoat and collared shirt, and nods in acknowledgement when Hanzo and McCree step up to the podium. “Good evening,” the omnic says pleasantly. “Do the two of you have a reservation?”

“Not today, no,” McCree says apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, but there is no room tonight unless you have a reservation. We’re hosting a small event, you see.”

“I told you this would happen,” Hanzo says, casting McCree a perfect “I told you so” look. “I looked it up before we left but you  _ insisted-- _ ”

“We didn’t realize,” McCree interrupts with a soft laugh. “It’s just--it’s kind of a special night for us too, is all. We just got engaged.” He slips his arm out of Hanzo’s to wrap around his waist instead, tugging Hanzo against his side. Hanzo goes with it without a moment’s hesitation. “And since we had our first date here, we were kinda hopin’ . . .”

“Oh!” the  _ maitre’d _ says in surprise. “Well, congratulations. That is a special night.” He looks down at the podium, scanning the list. It is impossible to tell his feelings with the expressionless faceplate, but eventually he says, “You know, I think we might be able to make an exception tonight. Right this way.” 

McCree and Hanzo share a quick, victorious smirk behind the waiter’s back as they follow.

They are seated at a small, intimate booth against the wall, near the far-left corner of the restaurant. Nearby, several tables have been pushed together, forming a square ringed by at least a dozen chairs. A couple of people are already there, chatting idly, but there is no sign yet of Dr. Shepard.

“Guess we’re waitin’ a bit,” McCree remarks quietly as they sit.

“Can I interest you in anything to drink?” the waiter asks. “A house wine, perhaps?”

“No!” Hanzo and McCree say simultaneously, too quickly. Startled, the waiter leaves them with menus and scurries off. 

“Then again,” McCree starts to say, and Hanzo shakes his head.

“Not again,” he replies. “I still do not even know who won the bet. I do not feel like repeating our mistakes.”

McCree chuckles and picks up his menu. “Fair enough.” He browses the menu while keeping an eye out for their target, who is due to arrive within the next few minutes. He’s always grateful for a mission that requires him to sit down and eat.

“Excuse me,” says a female voice behind him. McCree turns and looks up, only to find Dr. Shepard herself standing before him. She is even taller than the dossier had suggested; if McCree stood up, he would probably be an inch shorter, even without her tasteful heels. She is dressed in a flattering blazer and dress shirt, a coat and purse draped over her arm, looking less like a renowned scientist and more like a woman anticipating a date herself. 

“Yes?” McCree responds, hiding his mild surprise at their luck behind a look of mild interest.

“Sorry, I just--I was behind you, when you were getting your table. I wanted to say congratulations,” says Dr. Shepard. She looks between Hanzo and McCree with a sincere smile. “You said you were just engaged today?”  
“Yep, earlier this afternoon,” McCree lies easily. He fakes a laugh and looks to Hanzo. “Spent two weeks plannin’ it, and then he just asks me outta the blue. Can you believe that?”

“It is not my fault,” Hanzo protests playfully. “I cannot read your mind, and you were taking too long.”

Dr. Shepard giggles behind her hand. “That’s wonderful,” she says. “Congratulations again. Enjoy your celebration.” With a little wave, Dr. Shepard moves away from their table to her own, and sets her purse and a long peacoat down at one of the chairs. She is immediately greeted by everyone at the table, and she smiles and shakes hands before sitting. 

They remain at the restaurant for the better part of two hours, keeping a close eye on Dr. Shepard and her companions. As far as they can tell, however, it is uneventful. The meeting is secluded, alternating between business talk and playful in-jokes. Dr. Shepard appears to be enjoying herself, and does not look concerned at all with her surroundings or her coworkers. McCree occasionally catches snippets of the conversation, which ranges from stories from home to detailed, jargon-heavy science talk that he can’t begin to parse, but is still no cause for alarm. The real problem, McCree is quick to note, is that this is far too nice, far too like a real date. 

He keeps having to stop himself from instinctive acts of affection he would do with someone else: pressing his knee against Hanzo’s, or flirting playfully over their meals, or reaching over to touch Hanzo’s hand. Every time he catches himself, something squeezes in his chest, and he has to hide his disappointment. 

The thing is, he’s not normally like this. He’s had unrequited crushes, and he knows how to ask someone out if he chooses to. But aside from a couple of possibly-interested glances, Hanzo has only ever put up with his flirting, never returned it. And McCree knows better than to chase a lost cause.

Apparently, though, his old heart hasn’t gotten the message yet. 

The meeting finally starts to break up around 9PM, and Dr. Shepard is among the first to leave. With great reluctance, McCree abandons the last half of a slice of cheesecake, and he and Hanzo walk out together, following Dr. Shepard from a safe distance. When she climbs into a cab, they take their car, and they follow her a couple of cars back as they monitor for any possible attempts on her life during the ride.

But there is nothing, and she makes it to her hotel across from theirs without so much as a hint of trouble. 

When they finally arrive back in their own room, no worse for wear than they were a few hours ago, McCree finds himself hoping tomorrow will be more interesting. Anything to take his mind off of their fake relationship--if only for the sake of his own sanity. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! Sorry for the delay, but life happened. Like, 3 different ways it happened.

The next day drags on in a way that McCree hadn’t previously known that time could. 

He thought, after a good night’s sleep and a little time to himself, that he would be able to distance himself from the previous evening and forget, at least a little, about the not-date with Hanzo. What a joke that had been. There’s no escaping any of it like this, trapped in a tiny suite for two and a half days in constant close proximity to someone he’s in– _ something _ with. Not love, not yet, or at least he thinks, but something. Something more frustrating than a simple crush, something definitely harder to deal with than just wanting to kiss the man. Because attraction, a little bit of affection, he can deal with that. 

y This? This is just a nightmare, wrapped up in the form of a surprisingly charming man with a pretty face.

They spend the day primarily in the suite. McCree tries to sleep in, hoping he can avoid Hanzo through unconsciousness, but that plan fails when Hanzo wakes up at exactly 6AM and begins puttering around the suite. McCree’s briefly annoyed, but then he finds Hanzo’s strict adherence to his schedule  _ endearing _ , and then he shoves his head under the pillow and pretends nothing else exists until Hanzo brings him a cup of coffee. Thoughtful  _ and  _ admirable. Damn it. 

McCree makes breakfast, because Hanzo made coffee and also has threatened that neither of them will eat if McCree doesn’t take his turn in the kitchen. They laze around the suite for awhile, Hanzo reading what McCree suspects is a novel on his tablet while McCree cleans Peacekeeper, and then they go for lunch because the suite is stifling and nobody wants to cook again. The place they choose is a cozy local restaurant, and when they sit together at a small square table, McCree is immediately thrown back to the previous night’s not-date and he forgets to enjoy his meal entirely. 

He needs to stop being a coward and just admit to Hanzo his feelings. But he just can’t bring himself to do it. Hanzo is so self-reliant, so isolated, that McCree can’t imagine that any attempts at confessing his  _ something _ will go well. He’s tried to gauge Hanzo’s potential interest over the last couple of months, but he simply can’t find anything in his favor. A lingering glance here or there doesn’t mean that Hanzo cares for him, and the thought of losing Hanzo’s friendship over his own inability to control himself–that terrifies him more than he thought possible. Friendships nowadays are so few and far between that he doesn’t dare ruin what he does have just because he can’t control himself.

So McCree quietly suffers, and eagerly awaits when they can go back to Gibraltar and finally put some space between himself and Hanzo again. That’s all he needs. Feelings of all sorts run high when you’re crammed into a small space with the same person.

At least, this is what he tells himself. 

 

–

 

Tonight’s event is being hosted at a grand hotel and convention center in Numbani, in one of the many smaller event halls. The bright LED sign outside advertises the Numbani Medical and Robotics Convention, which makes it sound like a much grander event than a conference with some open presentations. McCree doesn’t expect anyone to show up besides himself, Hanzo, and whatever Talon agents might appear, but he is surprised to see a handful of other people weaving through the extravagant main lobby and toward the event hall. 

“Didn’t think there’d be so many people here,” he murmurs to Hanzo at his side. They have both dressed down for today, and somehow, Hanzo in a pair of dark, fitted jeans, a t-shirt, and a casual high-collared jacket is even more appealing than Hanzo in yesterday’s suit. 

“Neither did I. But I suppose there would be a lot of interest in a city such as this.” Hanzo’s gaze flits around discreetly, taking stock of their surroundings. The lobby is pretty grand, with polished white floors, long reception desks of dark, red-tinted wood, and large framed paintings of local scenes done by talented regional artists. There are a handful of hallways leading off through the building, and some fifteen floors to the building. It’s too much ground to cover before the meetings begin, so they will have to be extra aware during instead. 

They follow the small crowd as it filters toward the back of the lobby. A few people split off from the pack, headed for their own events or to their rooms upstairs, but the majority stick together as they head for a room labelled as Ballroom C. Already, the room is over halfway full, and it continues to fill as the crowd shuffles in and separates to occupy the empty seats. McCree and Hanzo manage to snag two seats together near the back of the room, which allows them to see the entirety of the ballroom and gives them access to the exits. Hanzo leaves his bow in its instrument case beside the door, next to a conference volunteer who looks like she couldn’t possibly care less but still within easy reach. Then they settle in to watch the show.

Before the presentations begin, McCree identifies six people in the crowd with discreet but differing black earpieces, ten with clothing that could easily hide weaponry, three with heavy military-grade boots under non-military jeans, and one young woman (also with an earpiece) who hasn’t looked up from her phone since he and Hanzo entered the room. He relates these observations to Hanzo, who makes a casual sweep of the room, then frowns. 

“I did not notice half of those,” he admits quietly. “Most of them did not strike me as important.”

“Well, most of ‘em probably aren’t.” McCree does doubt that the elderly man in the overcoat is going to spring into action with a semi-automatic anytime soon. “But it doesn’t hurt to be aware. Catchin’ someone undercover’s usually in the little things like that.”

Hanzo hums his agreement. “You would know, I imagine. You have an impressive eye for detail.”

McCree scratches absently at his beard to hide a pleased smile. “Few years in black ops will do that to ya.”

Then, abruptly aware that he is, in fact, undercover and meant to be so with Hanzo as his fiancé, McCree drapes an arm over the back of Hanzo’s chair. Hanzo, as though on instinct born of a million little things like this, casually leans into the crook of McCree’s shoulder. It’s enough for McCree to feel Hanzo’s warmth bleed through his clothing and to catch the bright appley scent of whatever shampoo Hanzo uses. 

McCree blows out a long breath toward the ceiling. He is a very stupid man, and this is going to be a  _ very _ long evening. 

The first two presentations go without a hitch. McCree keeps an eye out for any activity, but nobody is immediately suspicious. He keeps a particular eye on the other presenters, aware of the chance of colleague jealousy motivating some less savory behaviors, but can’t find anything from here. The individuals he noted earlier are largely benign, no apparent orders filtering in through earpieces or weapons being drawn from loose clothing. A couple people get up during, but return in under five minutes looking no more suspicious than when they left. 

Dr. Shepard’s presentation is near the end. As the last trickles of polite applause for the last speaker fade away, she makes her way onto the stage, dressed in a sharp forest-green dress underneath a crisp white lab coat. She has a hair-thin microphone adhered beside her ear, which amplifies her strong, professional tones with crystal clarity. 

“Good evening everyone,” she says pleasantly. “My name is Dr. Rochelle Shepard. As many of you know, I am a cyberphysiologist with the University of Numbani. Today, I’d like to present some of my more recent work in regards to large-scale cybernetics for body retainment and enhancement.”

Out of the corner of his eye, McCree sees Hanzo perk up minutely. His gaze is intent on the stage. Dr. Shepard makes a gesture, and a holographic projection appears behind her with a series of jargon-laden bullet points that McCree can’t begin to parse. 

“We are all, of course, familiar with the concept of individual prosthetics for the loss of limbs, and occasionally for organ replacement. However, very few have been able to successfully integrate large numbers of prosthetics or other life-support pieces. Usually, we are unable to have all of the cybernetics function together in a cohesive fashion while also integrating with the human body in a way that is natural for the patient. This has been the focus of my team’s research in the last few years, and I am happy to report we are having much success.”

Dr. Shepard continues on, delving quickly into even more topics that McCree has neither the interest nor the background knowledge to understand. He probably should care a little more, given his own prosthetic arm and his friendship with Genji, but this complicated science is just not his thing. He’ll leave that to the professionals and try not to get any more bits of himself blown off.

Instead, McCree turns his attention to the rest of the room. There is nothing overtly suspicious so far, only a group of humans and omnics alike watching the presentation with varying levels of interest. It seems unlikely that Talon would attempt something while Dr. Shepard was on stage, in front of three dozen audience members, but you never know. Talon did also assassinate an omnic man in front of a massive rally in London.

The first twenty minutes of the presentation pass without incident, but right at the stroke of 7:30 PM, the young woman on her phone gets to her feet. McCree’s eye is immediately drawn to the movement, and he watches as the woman checks her phone and idly scratches at her ear, which almost disguises the movement of her pressing against an earpiece there. Then she casually grabs her backpack and slips out of the ballroom. 

He dips his head to whisper to Hanzo, ignoring just how close that puts them. “Think we got ourselves a runner,” he says, nodding discreetly in the woman’s direction. “Should make sure she isn’t setting something up.”

Hanzo nods. “You go first. I will join you momentarily.”

McCree quietly gets up and leaves the room, giving their target a few seconds’ head start so as not to look too suspicious. When he departs the ballroom, he doesn’t immediately see where the young woman has gone, but a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye rounds the corner at the end of the hall. He follows quickly, down the hallway and around another corner. There, the young woman pauses outside of a door marked “Staff Only” another thirty feet down. She murmurs something into her phone, then ducks through the door. 

Hanzo joins him a moment later, cello case slung over his shoulder. He sets it down as he reaches McCree. “Any news?” he asks.

“Not yet, but I’m thinking she’s the one. Or someone. Haven’t decided what she’s doin’ but it doesn’t look good.”

Hanzo unpacks his bow and quiver from the case, shrugging both over his shoulder. “Then we should move. No doubt there are others with her somewhere nearby.”

“Knowing our luck, that seems likely.” 

On the other side of the door is another hallway, narrower and not nearly so richly decorated. It quickly branches off in several other directions. Through a few open doorways, McCree spots a kitchen and a number of closets stacked with cleaning supplies, though no other staff as of yet.

“They could easily reach the back of the ballrooms from here,” Hanzo whispers as they tiptoe down the hall. “I imagine they are gathered not far from here, waiting for a signal before they go after Dr. Shepard.” 

“Looks like.” 

“We should follow her, see where she leads us. She might be doing more than scouting.”

They’ve lost track of the woman, at least for the moment, but McCree can’t imagine she’s gotten very far. The staff hallways are more convoluted, presumably leading to other parts of the hotel from the kitchens and stockrooms McCree and Hanzo pass. For a minute, they don’t pass anyone else, staff or otherwise, and the halls remain deathly silent. 

Then McCree stops, and so does Hanzo, and he knows they’ve heard the same noise: footsteps, rapidly approaching their location. If they get caught here, their cover’s probably blown no matter what.

“Quickly,” Hanzo hisses, and before McCree fully understands what he means, Hanzo seizes the front of his shirt, yanks him down, and kisses him. 

It’s not terribly pleasant. Hanzo presses in too hard, his teeth a bruising wall behind his lips. His hand, fisted in McCree’s shirt, is pulling the collar sharply against McCree’s neck. 

And yet.

They had discussed this in passing, agreed that they could resort to this if absolutely necessary to keep their cover, but McCree still wasn’t prepared for just how much he wanted it. The feigned relationship, with all their casual touches and domestic playfulness, had been bad enough, but he could at least compartmentalize that, separate it as part of their job and at least pretend it didn’t matter. But this–this is something he can’t go back from, something he’s thought so much about in the last couple of weeks that, now that he has it, he can’t put it away again. 

It’s not real, McCree reminds himself as he tilts his head, slots his lips between Hanzo’s, and wraps his arms around Hanzo’s waist. 

_ It’s not real _ , he tells himself again as Hanzo’s fingertips brush against his hip, finding the thinnest sliver of exposed skin under the hem of his shirt. Somewhere, distantly, McCree hears the sound of booted footsteps approach, then stop.

“Good god,” somebody mutters. McCree thinks it’s important, but then Hanzo’s lips slide against his again, and there’s the faintest scrape of teeth, and he forgets why anything else mattered. 

“You guys know you’re not supposed to be back here, right?” asks the someone. “Staff only.”

McCree, though every part of him screams at him to ignore the intrusion so he can keep enjoying this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, reluctantly lifts his head. Just over his shoulder stands the woman they’ve been tailing, looking at them with disgust. McCree chuckles sheepishly. “Well, uh,” he says. “Probably not, I’ll give you that, but--”

“We wanted a moment.  _ Not _ to put on a show,” Hanzo interrupts rudely, casting a glare over his shoulder. McCree almost believes Hanzo’s actually angry about being caught in the act. “And you do not look like staff, either, so you are welcome to move along.” And then, without pause, he turns back to McCree and drags him straight back down into another passionate, if slightly painful, kiss. 

The woman scoffs, but McCree soon hears her footsteps depart. Hanzo’s grip on his shirt loosens, then slowly releases, and his hand comes away from McCree’s hip. McCree bites back a whine, and Hanzo starts to pull away. 

He doesn’t get far, though. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then leans in for one more kiss, a sweet, slow press of his lips to McCree’s that is completely unlike what they were doing not two seconds before. McCree’s heart all but stops in his chest.

_ This isn’t fake _ , he thinks wildly, hopefully. 

Hanzo abruptly steps away and breaks every point of contact between them. He looks at a point somewhere past McCree’s shoulder. His cheeks are a ruddy shade of red, but his face is otherwise as stoic and unaffected as ever.

“The target went around the corner,” he says. His voice sounds slightly rough. McCree dares to wonder if it was caused by the kiss--by him. Hanzo clears his throat and continues, “We should go. She will reach Dr. Shepard before us if we do not hurry.”

“Y-yeah. Right.” 

Hanzo turns away in the direction of their target and McCree, after taking a short second to reconfigure his worldview, follows. 

The woman leads them down the hall and through another door near what McCree estimates is at the back of the hotel. On the other side is a wide, chilly, dimly-lit garage, which McCree guesses is used for deliveries and storage. The wall nearest them is lined with with boxes and equipment, and there are stacks creating a cluttered labyrinth around them. The other end of the garage disappears into blackness, but he can hear faint voices somewhere beyond the stacks. 

When they round the corner of another wall of boxes and gear, they find the woman, as well as four other people dressed head-to-toe in Talon gear beside a heavily-armored van. 

McCree sighs as he reaches for his gun. “Couldn’t have just had a nice convention,” he laments. “Y’all just  _ had _ to stage a kidnapping.”

“A shame,” Hanzo agrees mildly, already nocking an arrow on his bow. 

“Betcha I’ll take down more of ‘em.”

Hanzo smirks. “As you wish.”

 

–

 

“You are aware,” Hanzo says, with no small amount of pleasure, as they finally drag their tired bodies back to the hotel a couple hours later, “that I took down the most targets.”

“Bullshit. We got even shots,” McCree counters. 

“Perhaps, but my arrows took down three of them. You made your shots, but only two were good enough to incapacitate the targets.”

McCree chews the inside of his cheek as he searches for a retort, but finds none. The bet was whoever took down the most targets, not whoever made the most shots. Loathe as he is to admit it, Hanzo technically did make the bet.

“Fine,” he mutters, kicking his boots in the direction of the door. He flops onto the couch, claiming the whole thing for himself as retribution. “I  _ guess _ .”

Hanzo laughs softly as he shrugs off his jacket and boots. “You are the one who made the bet,” he points out. “It was your rule.”

“You pull out the technicalities an awful lot when we’re doin’ this.”

“Really? I would argue you are trying to be too broad so that you can win when it looks like you will not.”

McCree flaps a hand in Hanzo’s direction as answer. Hanzo laughs again. “In any case,” he continues, grinning, “you realize that is now the third bet you have lost in . . . a week and a half, I believe? You are racking up quite the debt.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'll pay up back at base." 

McCree turns his head so he can watch Hanzo as he picks about his bow and sits, cross-legged, beside the couch with the bow in his lap. He wonders if he could perhaps sit up behind Hanzo, bend down so that their faces are close, upside-down but still close enough to steal another kiss. God, he knows exactly what that would feel like now: how deceptively soft Hanzo’s lips are, how it feels when his beard scrapes against his own, the tiny noises he makes, all of those little details he couldn’t make up in his own fantasies that are now far too real to forget. 

McCree muffles a groan in the seat of the couch. He can’t remember the last time he was this pathetic. 

And on top of it all, he lost another goddamn bet. Third one in half as many weeks. So not only is he head over heels in . . .  _ something _ with a man he probably has no chance with, but that same man now all but owns his pride and soul in the form of wager debt. It seems unfair to have to deal with both at the same time. Lady Luck’s really not favoring him right now. 

Hanzo gently drags the tips of two fingers along the string of his bow. McCree wishes he were that bowstring, then realizes that’s a strange thought to have. 

Then an idea occurs to him. 

It might get him smacked, if it turns out really badly. But he doesn’t think it will. Either Hanzo will take the bet, driven by his own pride and need to win, or he will decline it, and McCree can even out some of that debt and laugh the whole thing off as a joke. And if he does accept it and win, well . . . McCree’s willing to go 0 for 4 if it means this works. 

“I got another bet for ya,” McCree says. He pushes himself up onto his elbows so he can look at Hanzo. 

Hanzo lifts his gaze from his bow, already interested. “And what would that be? Something else for me to beat you at?”

“Maybe.” McCree licks his lips. His heartbeat picks up the pace. He doesn’t know if he’s reading too deep into this, letting his hopes get too far ahead of his brain. He doubts Hanzo will even take this bet, in all actuality, but he has to try–for the sake of his pride and for the sake of his old heart. Regardless of which one of them wins, McCree will get the answer that he needs.

“I bet,” he says, “that you won’t kiss me again. Right now.”

Hanzo’s eyes widen a fraction. He sets his bow back down in his lap, hand tightening around the grip. McCree waits, trying to discern whether he will be blown off or pleasantly surprised. 

Then Hanzo glares, and a muscle flexes in his neck as he clenches his jaw. “Is this a game to you?” he asks coldly.

McCree’s blinks. He hadn’t expected  _ angry _ . “Uh, well,” he starts, “I mean, kind of, it is a bet–”

“So you think that a bet allows you to be cruel? Are you trying to see how far you can push me just for fun?”

McCree’s stomach drops, like he’s missed a step down the stairs and there’s no saving him now: all he can do is brace for impact. “I don’t understand,” he says. “I was just playin’, you don’t have to–”

“I am sorry,” Hanzo interjects icily, “for what happened earlier tonight. I am sorry I took advantage, but that does not mean you get to play with my feelings for the sake of a  _ bet _ .”

McCree’s breath sticks in his throat. The room is painfully, deadly silent for the span of several heartbeats. 

“Feelings?” he repeats.

Hanzo’s gaze turns suspicious. “Surely that is why you are playing this game,” he says.

McCree’s thoughts grind to a halt. He is stuck on just the one word. 

“Feelings,” he says again. “You . . . have feelings for me?”

Hanzo stares at him. “Is that not why you would make such a bet? Did you not know?”

“I–I didn’t, actually, no.”

Hanzo’s mouth shuts with a click. His aggressive posture immediately melts away, replaced by something that, on anyone else, McCree might call fear. He grits his teeth again, averting his gaze to the side.

“You did not know,” he repeats, more to himself than McCree. 

“Of course not. You really think I’d mess with you like that if I–?”

“I–” Hanzo starts, then stops. “Surely you must have realized earlier.”

“How? You don’t tell me  _ shit _ .”

“When we were in the convention. Even you must have realized that we did not need to–spend as long as we did  _ kissing _ .” He spits the word as though it’s bitter on his tongue. 

“Well, I guess we didn’t, no. But I didn’t think . . .” McCree trails off. He’s having a hard time comprehending anything else other than  _ Hanzo kissed me because he wanted to _ . 

“I should not have taken advantage. I am sorry.” Hanzo gets to his feet, bow clenched tightly in his hand. “This is–none of this was meant to happen. I should not have even accepted this mission with you. I do not expect anything from you.”

McCree senses that this conversation is quickly headed in a direction he doesn’t want, that his chances are slipping through his fingers before he can even catch hold. “Hold on now,” he says, standing and cutting Hanzo off as he tries to turn away. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“In what? I am not interested in staying here while you try to politely tell me how you do not feel the same.”

“It ain’t like that.”

This, finally, is what gets Hanzo to stop. He stares up at McCree, brow furrowed with suspicion. “What do you mean?” he asks.

McCree squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, determined to get the words out while he still has the chance. “I mean that I feel the same, Hanzo. Have done for awhile now.” 

Hanzo is stock-still, utterly disbelieving. McCree sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. “Look. I asked you that stupid bet because I thought--I don’t know, there was  _ something _ when you kissed me earlier, and I thought  _ maybe _ you liked me somehow, but I didn’t really know, so--”

Hanzo’s expressions turns thunderous, and McCree’s words die in his throat. “So you  _ did _ know,” Hanzo says icily.

“What? Well, no, I--”

“You did!” Hanzo interrupts. “You knew, and you decided to make a game of it! To make a  _ bet _ so you could manipulate me!”

“What the hell, Hanzo, that’s not what--”

“It was. You did not want to admit anything to me, so instead you decided you would take  _ my _ feelings and make a bet out of them. So that you could be safe, just in case you were wrong, while you embarrassed me for the sake of your own pride.”

McCree’s own temper flares at the accusation before he can stop it. “Did you not just hear me say I did it because I felt something, too?” he demands. 

“You think that is an excuse? That does not make what you have done any more acceptable.”

“It isn’t _like that_ ,” McCree insists angrily. “And besides, didn’t you just get done telling me that you weren’t _just_ kissing me for our cover?”

Hanzo somehow manages to bristle further. “That is not the same.”

“How? How is it not the same goddamn thing?”

“Because it was for our mission first and foremost, not for me, and I did not use it to mock you--”

“Well, I don’t think it’s all that different. So if you’re going to accuse me of being a coward, you better take a good fucking look at yourself first, Hanzo.”

Hanzo’s eyes go wide, and McCree realizes, too late, that he’s crossed a line. 

“We are done here,” Hanzo says coldly. He picks up his duffel bag and throws it over his shoulder.

McCree’s stomach drops. “Hanzo, c’mon,” he implores, and he hates how it sounds like begging. 

Hanzo shoulders past him silently. He puts his bow in the cello case, every movement tense with sharp fury, and moves to the door without a glance to McCree. 

“I will meet you at the shuttle when it arrives.” Hanzo yanks open the door and is through it in a flash. McCree follows quickly, smacking his shoulder against the doorframe as he hurries through before Hanzo can leave. 

“Hanzo, come on. This is stupid,” he says, following Hanzo as he all but runs down the hallway. “We want the same damn thing, don’t we?” 

“Not like this!” Hanzo snarls. 

McCree stops up short. Hanzo clenches his jaw, then says again through gritted teeth, “Not like this, McCree. None of this was meant to happen. And I--I will not be made a fool of.”

“Hanzo--”

“Our extraction is in forty-eight minutes. Be on time.” With this, Hanzo turns away, and a few long-legged strides take him around the corner and out of McCree’s sight. McCree doesn’t bother giving chase this time. 

After a long moment, he turns and goes back into the suite. It doesn’t take long for the emotion and adrenaline to drain from his body, replaced by cold guilt. 

Numbly, he packs up his belongings and sweeps the suite to make sure neither he nor Hanzo have left anything behind. He doesn’t find anything of Hanzo’s, but he finds a couple of bullets lying on the carpet that somehow feel like a personal failing on his part. He pockets them sullenly and grabs his bag. 

The walk to the drop zone is long, quiet, and cold. When he arrives, Hanzo is already there. McCree feels another flare of anger when he sees Hanzo again, but it is quickly extinguished again by the guilt. Shit, what had he been thinking? Had he ruined his chance before he even knew he had it? 

Hanzo resolutely refuses to make eye contact with McCree, and does not respond when McCree calls his name. The moment they are on board, Hanzo digs a pair of ear buds out of his bag, shoves them in, and turns the music on his phone up to a level that even McCree can hear. Then he takes a bench at the back of the shuttle, lying stretched out with his back to the room--and McCree. 

McCree sits at the opposite end of the shuttle, his guts a cold, twisting mess. He doesn’t try to get Hanzo’s attention again, but waits, hoping that Hanzo will come around on his own. 

Hanzo doesn’t look at him once. 

The hours pass in absolute silence.


	6. Chapter 6

_ Mission Log: 3/17/2077 _

 

_ Arrived at Numbani convention center approx. 5:45 PM with Agent H. Took position in Ballroom C where Dr. Shepard’s presentation was to be hosted at 7:15 PM. Noted several individuals of possible suspect, including young woman approx. 23yo, but no current activity. Presentations uneventful until 7:30 PM, at which point woman got up and left room, apparently in contact with someone outside. Determined her to be a possible target and followed with Agent H.  _

_ Target moved to back of convention center and into staff-only location. Able to follow without incident until we briefly lost sight of her. While attempting to locate, noted someone coming our direction; to maintain cover-- _

 

McCree stares at his tablet. The blinking cursor at the end of his report seems to mock him, steadily winking in and out of sight without moving toward the end of a sentence. 

He hasn’t had this problem before. He’s done more than once fake-relationship undercover gig, and yes, that included another one where he ended up making out with his partner in the back alley behind a dingy bar to hide the fact they were actually following a notorious gang member. He wrote the report for that one with pure amusement. (Jack had not been amused. Gabriel had pretended not to be, but had obviously trying not to laugh throughout the debriefing.)

But for that mission, he hadn’t gotten into an awful shouting match about the kissing afterwards.. 

He considers, not for the first time, just  _ not  _ turning in this report. He didn’t do them consistently even in his time with Blackwatch, and nowadays it’s more of a formality. Winston just likes to have them on hand in case of some sort of report-based emergency. Plus, Hanzo will probably have already filed his own report of the incident . . .

McCree sighs deeply, stares at the tablet for a few more seconds, then switches it off. Fuck it. Winston can live without this one. Besides, no doubt Hanzo’s already done a report that’s ten times more thorough. 

He turns his attention instead to his phone, sitting beside his arm on the table. It is silent, as it has been for two days. He doesn’t get a lot of messages or alerts, but he keeps hoping for Hanzo’s name to pop up on the screen. So far, though it is early afternoon and he knows Hanzo’s been awake for a minimum of seven hours, there is nothing. Though it’s a futile effort, he opens another text and types out a message:

 

To: Hanzo

14:16      _ Hanzo come on this is ridiculous would you just talk to me. please _

 

He presses send and the message disappears into the digital ether, most likely to be ignored just like the other four McCree’s sent in the last two days. In a fit of pique, he sends another:

 

14:16 _or just keep bein a stubborn ass whatever u wanna do_

 

Then he sets the phone aside before he can work himself into a proper lather.

He leans back in the chair and groans up at the ceiling, frustrated. He’s had enough time to think on it and yeah, making a game out of Hanzo’s feelings was a stupid, stupid idea and he shouldn’t have been surprised by the reaction. Isn’t surprised. However, he hasn’t seen Hanzo since he stormed off the shuttle that night, the moment they touched down at the Watchpoint, and all other attempts to communicate with him have gone unanswered.

McCree won’t pretend that he didn’t spend the first day trying to stay out of Hanzo’s sight, too. He didn’t feel like being shouted at again, and didn’t know how to reconcile his mistakes with his own hurt feelings (among the rest of the feelings that got him into trouble in the first place). But as time wore on, his own anger had faded, leaving behind something more akin to betrayal and guilt. And he knows those ones well enough without someone else being the source, thank you kindly. 

All of that leaves him here, struggling to write a stupid report while being unable to think of anything but kissing Hanzo and how he probably ruined his chance to do it again. 

The thought causes a deep ache in McCree’s chest. He rubs his knuckles over his sternum, trying to work away the phantom pain. It’s been a long time since he’s cared for someone this much. Not only that, but he’d been given a taste of what it could be, gotten the validation he so badly needed that he wasn’t alone in these feelings, and then he’d messed it all up. 

Not that Hanzo was helping matters. 

McCree abruptly stands from his chair, sending it skidding. He grabs his nearest serape, throws it around his shoulders, grabs the rest of his gear sans phone, and quickly departs his dorm. He doesn’t know where he’s going to go from here, but he can’t be alone with his thoughts anymore or he’ll go insane, and he’s spent enough years on his own to know what that’s like.

He lets his legs carry him without much thought, which leads him on a somewhat meandering route through the dorms, the common space, and finally into the kitchen. Here he pauses. 

Before the Recall, he hadn’t seen much of this whole space. The common spaces were shared among the soldiers, sure, but back in the day, most of the rabble--himself included--took their meals in a bigger, much less cozy cafeteria. This dining room had really been reserved for the ranked officers: Jack and Gabe and Ana and a handful of others. Sometimes he and a few others would make their way here for meetings or small gatherings, but largely, it had been off-limits. Though they’ve made themselves comfortable now, it still feels just a little strange to McCree that what was once an exclusive space is now occupied by a handful of ragtag vigilantes. 

Well, maybe it’s better off that way, all things considered. 

He fetches himself a glass of sweet iced tea from the fridge, drinks half of it standing in front of the fridge, refills, and makes his way out of the kitchen. He doesn’t feel much better for the drink, but at least it’s a tasty distraction. 

At least, it’s a distraction until he nearly barrels into someone in the doorway to the dining room. He stops up short and throws out a hand to catch the other person by the shoulder, other hand held out wide to save his precious sweet tea. 

“Whoa there,” he says, just as he realizes the other person is Hanzo. 

Hanzo glances up, seems to recognize him, then looks away again. “Excuse me,” he says, and moves to duck around McCree.

“Actually, hold on,” McCree says, cutting off Hanzo’s path with his arm. “Was kinda hoping I’d run into you.”

Hanzo frowns at him, which is not a good sign. “I do not have time,” he says, again moving to step around McCree. McCree again cuts him off. 

“Hanzo, come on,” McCree sighs. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened, but you’re not letting me--”

“I  _ said, _ "  Hanzo interrupts, “that I do not have time, McCree.” He still will not make eye contact. McCree might almost call it guilt rather than anger. Or it could be both, or neither, knowing Hanzo’s confusing moods. “I do not want to discuss this right now. Let me pass.” 

An angry retort rushes up McCree’s throat, but he traps it behind his teeth. Reluctantly, he allows Hanzo by, and Hanzo breezes past and disappears around the corner without another word.

Is this what he’s doomed to deal with forever, then? A hurt, stubborn Hanzo who won’t even look him in the eye?

He sighs deeply and turns back to the dining room, and as he enters, he realizes that he and Hanzo weren’t alone. Lucio and Angela are sitting at the table, and though they have tablets and documents in front of them, their gazes are decidedly on McCree. 

Great.

“You alright, man?” Lucio asks. “What was that all about?”

McCree winces. “Nothin’,” he says, then amends, “Well, not nothin’, but it’s . . . complicated.”

Angela gestures for him to come sit, and he does, dropping himself into a chair opposite the two. He peers over the work laid out in front of them, but can’t make heads or tails of most of it. “What’s all this, then?”

“Oh, we’re just going over some of our work,” Angela says with a wave of her hand. “Since Lucio’s helping me in the medbay, I thought it would be prudent to go over some of the work I’ve done for Genji, not to mention the prosthetics we use.”

“Plus, I thought she’d have some ideas for my boombox,” Lucio adds, patting his kit beside him on the table. “It’s kind of jerry-rigged from stuff I had lying around.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d say that. I’d never even considered music-enhanced biotics before. It’s a truly remarkable piece of equipment.”

Lucio beams, pleased, and McCree hides an amused smile behind his glass of tea. 

But the change in conversation only lasts for a moment. Angela sets down her tablet and folds her hands on the table. “So,” she says. “What was that with Hanzo? Is everything alright?”

McCree sighs. “Don’t really wanna talk about it,” he mutters into his glass.

Angela tilts her head a little. She’s always been able to see through him, and patient enough to wait for the answer she wants. “I don’t mean to pry,” she says. “I’m just worried. You’ve always seemed to get along well.”

Lucio, newer to the group, casts a glance between the two of them and tries to busy himself with some papers. McCree puts down the glass, watching condensation start to form on the outside. 

“I messed up,” he admits after a bit. “While we were out on our last mission, I said somethin’ I shouldn’t have. Been trying to apologize, but he won’t have it, I guess.”

“It can’t have been that bad,” Lucio says. “Hanzo’s cool and all, but he’s always been kinda grouchy, hasn’t he?”

McCree debates for a moment about telling them everything. Eventually he gives a brief, sparsely-detailed recap of the events, leaving out the kiss on the mission and the precise details of the bet, but leaving enough for them to get the gist of the problem. Lucio lets out a disbelieving, “Really?!” when McCree makes his feelings for Hanzo clear, but Angela seems completely unsurprised by the news. 

“Oh, Jesse,” she sighs, reaching over to pat his hand. “What were you thinking?”

“I know, I know,” McCree groans, wiping his free hand down his face. “It was real dumb. But I’m tryin’ to fix it. He just . . . won’t let me.”

“Well, he is a stubborn man. Much like someone else I know.” McCree frowns at this, but Angela only smiles back. 

“He can’t stay mad forever,” Lucio says. “Stubborn or not. You’ll figure it out, man.”

“I hope so.” McCree runs his thumb through the condensation on the glass, leaving a streak through the cold droplets. “I feel like an ass, but if he wants to ghost me, I’m not gonna wait around and beg while he does.”

An uncomfortable silence falls between them. McCree doesn’t blame them. He drains the rest of his tea.

“Well, hey,” Lucio says, brightening, “we’re throwing a bit of a party tomorrow. Winston says we’ve had a really good string of missions so we’re gonna celebrate a little. Get some music, food, all that good stuff. You should come by. Might be good to get your mind off of everything for a bit.”

McCree gets to his feet. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” he says. “Thanks for listening to me bellyache about this nonsense.”

He can feel their gazes on his back as he leaves the room. 

 

\--

 

The party, at least, is a good idea.

It takes McCree a little while to drag himself down there, a little hesitant after the events of the last few days, but it’s worthwhile. It isn’t a large affair by any means, but it’s the biggest gathering they’ve had since the Recall, and it’s one of the rare days where everyone is on the base at the same time. When McCree arrives, some fifteen or so minutes after 7PM, everyone has gathered and split off into clumps. Hana’s playing a game projected against the far wall, which Mei, Genji, and Reinhardt are all watching and commenting on, and Lena and Winston are poring over what looks like a piece of Lena’s chronal accelerator in the middle of the room. Angela and Torbjorn are chatting off to the side, next Lucio’s surprisingly elaborate DJ set-up, which is covered in imagery of a stylized frog and pumping some poppy electronic music from the speakers. Everyone seems relaxed already, and just by stepping into the room, McCree feels some of the weight of the last few days lift off his shoulders. 

A quick scan of the room reveals no immediate sign of Hanzo, but then McCree catches him on the far side, sharing a table with, of all people, Zenyatta. His attention is on whatever Hana’s playing, but he seems to be responding to Zenyatta here and there. McCree opts to avoid that corner of the room for now. 

“Hey, there you are!” Lucio calls. He ducks out from his station and quickly crosses the room, dipping his hand into a large cooler as he goes. He presses a beer into McCree’s hand before McCree fully realizes what’s happening. “Fashionably late as always, right?”

McCree chuckles. "Yeah, that's me," he agrees. "Gotta maintain that air of mystery somehow, you know."

"Oh, no doubt. Glad you could make it, though. Things going alright?"

"Well, no, not really." McCree twists the top off his beer,  the bottle giving a satisfying hiss as the pressure releases. "But I'm getting by."

"Well, hopefully this'll take your mind off of it." Lucio's gaze slides to something over McCree's shoulder, and his eyes light up. "That a guitar? I didn't know you played!"

McCree nods, pulling his guitar off his shoulder by its worn crimson strap. "A little. Gotta do somethin' to keep myself busy. Used to play a bit for stuff like this back when Overwatch was still going strong."

"Oh, you're definitely helping me with the music tonight, then."

The first half-hour passes in a pleasant blur of laughter and good company. McCree makes himself comfortable with Lucio and the others, tunes his guitar, and plays. He falls back on a few old country standards, as well as some classic rock that's older still. Lucio teases him for his choice in music, but lets it go when McCree points out that everything he plays fits his dashing cowboy persona. Some of the other members of the team join in; McCree manages to wrangle Lena and Angela into singing along, and Reinhardt belts out the first tune he hears without having to be encouraged. Someone presses a second beer into his hand when the first one’s gone. 

It's all familiar, just like those parties from Overwatch past. Despite all the new faces and the absence of older ones, McCree feels like he's gone back 10 years, before Overwatch collapsed in on itself and the world turned on them all and forced them to scatter. For the first time since the Recall began--rather, for the first time he left Blackwatch all those years ago--he feels truly at home again. 

Finally, he pardons himself from the group, setting aside the guitar and flexing his aching fingers. He makes his way over to the couch, where nobody but Reinhardt has moved, though Hana's gaming has apparently taken a pause. McCree settles in with his third beer and his guitar in his lap, listening to Hana’s and Mei’s passionate discussion about Mei’s research and the grand importance of ecological conservation. 

This was a good decision, he’ll admit. He even manages to forget about Hanzo for a little while, right up until he sees the man in question walking toward them.

“Excuse me,” Hanzo says, just loud enough to be heard over the din. 

Hana, Genji, and Mei immediately look up. McCree grimaces and takes a deep draft from his beer. 

"I wanted to return this," Hanzo continues. He holds out a plastic video game box in Hana's direction, which makes McCree narrow his eyes slightly. 

"Oh!" Hana exclaims as she takes it back. "So you played it then? What did you think? It's totally awesome, right?"

"It was very enjoyable, yes."

"So now that you've played it, you have to join one of my livestreams. Nobody believes me when I tell them how awesome you are."

Hanzo laughs. McCree feels a weird, bitter pang of jealousy. "I do not think I am cut out for such things. My pride will survive without proving myself."

"It's not about your pride, it's about mine!"

Hanzo shakes his head, chuckling. Then he looks at McCree, and the laughter dies in his throat. 

Damn, though, he looks good tonight. He’s left his hair down tonight, combed dashingly onto the right side of his head, a little scruffy and looking impossibly soft to the touch. His casual t-shirt fits to his figure so fine it’s like it’s been painted on, smooth over every curve of his broad chest and the taper of his narrow waist. He looks relaxed, at home among a group of people that, a few months ago, he would hardly even talk to. McCree could rest his head against Hanzo’s stomach, the way they’re positioned.  

McCree wonders what would happen if he just grabbed Hanzo and kissed him senseless. Make things worse, probably, but it might be better than this stupid limbo they’ve trapped themselves in. 

McCree swallows hard. "Hey," he says, for lack of anything else to say. 

Hanzo's smile disappears. "Hello," he says stiffly. 

McCree fumbles for anything else to say. "Enjoying yourself?

Hanzo gives a stiff nod, and his gaze slides off somewhere to the side. “My apologies for interrupting,” he says, sounding much less relaxed than when he arrived. “I wanted to return that while I had the chance. I will . . .” He doesn’t finish the thought before stepping away from the group.

A beat passes.

“Wow,” Hana says. “I think I actually felt you turn weird when he got here. What’s going on with you two?”

McCree shoots her a halfheartedly disapproving look, but she is not impressed, and he sighs. “It’s nothin’,” he says, sinking into the couch. He takes a deep drink from his beer, though it tastes flat and unappealing now. 

Hana and Mei look doubtful, but they slowly resume their conversation. Genji, however, regards McCree for a long moment behind his mask. Then he stands. 

“Come with me, McCree,” he says. McCree almost refuses, but he hauls himself to his feet anyway. McCree can feel the others watching as they depart.

Genji leads the way out of the rec room, then out of the dorm building entirely, out into the base proper. Night has already fallen, and the air coming off the sea is bitingly cold, a reminder that though spring is on its way, winter still has them in its grasp. McCree pulls his serape tighter about his neck and face. If Genji, with all his heat-producing cybernetics, notices the cold at all, he does not act like it. 

Genji waits until they are a hundred feet or so down the road before he says, “My brother told me what happened the other day.”

“‘Course he did,” McCree says dryly. “Suppose you’re here to tell me off for breakin’ your brother’s heart or something.”

“That was not the plan, no.”

“Small miracles.”

“You are my friend,” Genji says patiently. “I have talked with Hanzo about the matter, but I have not talked with you. I am capable of caring about both of your wellbeings.”

McCree, after the last several days and after spending yesterday afternoon going over his mistakes with two other members of the team, is not in the mood to talk about it yet again. He pointedly digs out his box of cigarillos and a lighter from his pocket. “If you’re just gonna tell me how dumb I was, you can save it,” he grumbles, clenching a cigarillo between his teeth. “I already got that figured out.”

Genji sighs, which comes out like a faint burst of static. “I had not intended to do that, either,” he says. 

McCree lights his cigarillo and sucks in a mouthful of smoke.

“He has been just as distressed as you are,” Genji says quietly. “If not more so. He regrets what he said to you that night. And he is embarrassed, I think, not by you but by his own actions.”

McCree blows the smoke out into the air, watching it dissipate against the harsh light of a streetlamp. 

“That is not to say that he is handling it well,” Genji continues, heedless of McCree’s silence. “But he has never been good at this sort of thing. He is honorable enough to apologize when he makes a simple mistake, but anything else, he does not know how to handle. He has always been that way, even when we were children. Perhaps because he was expected to lead the clan, moreso than I, and worrying about feelings or other such things was considered weakness.”

A moment passes in silence. Then Genji adds, “But he does care about you. I never expected that, when I brought him here, but he does.”

Finally, McCree breaks with an agitated sigh. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you are both being idiots.”

McCree snorts. “Thought you weren’t here to tell me that.”

“Not about what you did. You are being idiots now. He is being childish, but you cannot force him to listen to you. You are close friends, first and foremost. This will be resolved, with time, if you allow it to happen.”

McCree chews on the end of his cigarillo, annoyed. He laughs dryly after a moment and says, “I can’t believe that I’m getting lectures on being patient from you, of all people. That ain’t the Genji I remember.”

Genji laughs, too. “I was a different man, back then. My master has taught me a great many things, and patience is among the first.”

A minute or so passes as they walk the road through the base. The road takes them near to the edge of the cliffs, and the dark sea below is calm, washing against the high rock walls. A couple of seagulls caw at each other, their calls high and loud in the stillness of the night.

“You truly care for my brother, don’t you,” Genji says. A statement, not a question.

McCree thinks of how to answer as he watches the embers glow bright at the end of his cigarillo. “I mean,” he says, “it’s not all that. I’m not in _ love _ with him, if that’s what you’re getting at.” 

Genji watches him with a little tilt to his head, thoughtful and inquiring. McCree can’t quite match his gaze. 

“But,” he says, “he really is somethin’.”

Genji nods. McCree feels like he’s being evaluated, though he can’t guess what for. 

“I lied,” Genji says after another moment. “I do not think it will happen, but if you  _ do  _ treat my brother poorly, you will hear from me. And I have informed him that that the same will happen if he mistreats a dear friend.”

McCree huffs a laugh. “You know, I’d expect nothing less.”

 

\--

The next day passes uneventfully and predictably, until McCree’s phone goes off in the evening and wakes him from a well-deserved nap. 

 

From: Genji

19:34      _ Do you remember the spot where we used to hide from Reyes? On the top of the arms storage unit built into the cliff? _

 

McCree frowns down at the text. He does remember that old hideaway. It’s a convenient little nook, reachable from the stairs in the storage unit and hidden just so in the cliff overhang that it’s all but invisible. They used to go up there together to drink or smoke or just relax after Blackwatch ran them to the ground. McCree hasn’t been back up there in a while, though, since there are easier places to be alone and nobody to hide from (on the Watchpoint, at least) anymore.

 

To:Genji    

19:34      _ I do, why _

 

From: Genji

19:35       _ My brother is up there now. If you are quick, you might be able to catch him. _

19:35      _ Go solve your issues. I’m used to seeing him broody and unreasonable, but it is not a good look on you. _

 

To: Genji

19:36      _ thanks, jackass _

 

From: Genji

19:36      _ <3 _

 

McCree pockets his phone and starts to consider his next move, but as soon as he does, his phone buzzes again. Expecting another helpful text from Genji, he checks it, and is surprised to see Hanzo’s name pop up instead. 

He hesitates before he opens the message. 

 

From: Hanzo 

19:37      _ Do you have a moment? _

 

McCree stares at the text for a long moment. There’s a spiteful, irritated part of him that wants to put his phone away, pretend he never saw the message, and let Hanzo feel the sting of neglect. But he knows better, and that spiteful part of him is quickly overwhelmed by the eagerness of finally getting a chance to make things right. 

There’s a paper bag on his desk that has sat untouched for three days, holding a couple bottles of alcohol and a box of expensive green tea: Hanzo’s well-deserved earnings from the last several bets. He tucks that into the crook of his arm before he strikes out into the base, off toward the building not far from the ranges. He does not slow until he arrives, and then he hesitates, just a little, as he picks his way through the dusty old unit and up the stairs to the roof. 

When he opens the door to the roof, he almost expects Hanzo to have disappeared, but no, Hanzo is still there. He sits leaning against the cliff, fitted against the rough curve of the rock as it angles overhead to a stony ceiling. He looks up at the sound of the door, and for a brief moment he seems surprised by McCree’s appearance. Then he returns his gaze outward, toward the nearby cliffs and the calm seas stretching out toward the horizon.

McCree moves carefully, almost afraid that he’ll startle Hanzo away. But Hanzo does not so much as twitch a muscle, and McCree sits beside him, setting the paper bag beside him.

Neither of them speak for a moment. McCree says, “Brought the stuff I owe you, by the way. From the bets.” He rustles the bag intentionally. “I know it’s a bit overdue, but. Well.”

Hanzo glances at him from the corner of his eye, then at the bag, and returns his gaze to the horizon. 

McCree lets the silence stretch on for another moment as he considers what to do next. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Alright,” he says. “Neither of us are real good at the talking thing. But I wanna say a few things, if you’ll let me. No bets, no games, no bullshit, just me and you.”

Hanzo doesn’t answer, which McCree takes as a positive sign. His fingers itch for something to do, so he taps a cigarillo out of the box in his pocket but doesn’t light it, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. It helps calm the nerves just a little, transferring the anxious energy into something else. 

“First off,” he says, “I’m sorry. For that stupid bet I tried to make in Numbani. I figured I’d either win a bet or get something out of it, and you’re right, it was shitty, and I’m real sorry for doing that to you.”

He sighs shortly and looks at Hanzo. “But you gotta understand, I never meant to manipulate you, or embarrass you, or whatever you were thinking,” he says. “It was a dumb idea and I shouldn’t’ve done it, I admit, but I’d never mock you for something like that. You know that, right?” 

At this, Hanzo grimaces. He dips his head to rub a hand against the back of his neck, hiding his face from view. Still, he says nothing. 

McCree feels a flare of irritation, which he is quick to tamp back down. Anger is what got them both into this mess, and with something else he might just keep on down that road, but this is too important. He taps the cigarillo against his knee with his thumb rapidly.“You don’t have to forgive me,” he says, “but it’d be nice if you at least said something. You’re the one who told me to come up here.”

Hanzo sighs deeply. “I know,” he says. “I am--thinking.”

McCree resists the urge to roll his eyes. “We’ve had all the time in the world to think, Han.”

“I realize this.”

“Look, if you’d rather I just go--” McCree starts, getting his feet underneath him. 

“Wait.”

Hanzo’s hand snaps out and seizes McCree by the upper arm. McCree pauses, not even halfway to standing. Hanzo looks up at him with beseeching eyes, distress lining his face, wordlessly imploring him to stay.

“Alright,” McCree says, and he slowly sits back down. Hanzo’s grip loosens on his arm by a fraction, but he does not let go.

“I . . . owe you an apology as well,” Hanzo says haltingly. “I may have let my emotions cloud my judgment. You are a better man than I accused you of being, and you did not deserve such poor treatment. I am sorry.”

The pervasive tightness that has lingered in McCree’s chest for the last two days abruptly loosens, like pulling on the end of a slip knot and letting everything fall slack. He breathes deep, and his lungs feel full for the first time in awhile. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I don’t blame you much, given everything.”

“I was too ashamed to face you. I should have allowed you to explain yourself sooner.”

“That woulda been nice, yeah, but like I said, water under the bridge.”

Hanzo presses his lips into a thin line, but does not argue further. He glances down and seems to become suddenly aware that he is still clinging to McCree’s arm, and he lets go quickly and folds his hands in his lap. The warmth of his touch rapidly dissipates from McCree’s sleeve. 

McCree allows another moment of quiet to stretch between them, then says, “You know I meant what I said that night, right?”

“There was a lot said that night.”

“You know damn well what I mean.” Judging by the guilty frown on Hanzo’s face that follows, he does know. “This whole thing got started because neither of us wanted to be straightforward. And I know it’s a right mess now, but--”

McCree sighs. He tucks away the unlit cigarillo and sweeps off his hat, holding it in front of his chest. He hopes the sincerity of the gesture will hide his nervousness. “Hanzo, I’m crazy about you. I know I messed up and I should’ve just told you that night, but you--

“Wait.”

McCree’s words stick in his throat at the simple command, and his gut runs cold. He starts to protest, fearing that his chances are once again slipping between his fingers, but Hanzo interrupts him with a shake of his head. 

“You have said enough,” he explains. “I would like to speak, if that is alright.”

Though a little put-out, McCree nods. All he knows so far is what was said that night--that Hanzo had some feelings towards him. Everything else surrounding that fact remains a mystery still.

It takes a moment for Hanzo to speak again, and when he does, every word seems to be a great physical effort. “I--feel similarly,” he says, then pauses. 

McCree waits a moment, unsure if that is the end. “That all?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Hanzo laughs softly, but sobers quickly. “No, I . . .”

He blows out a breath, agitated now, and begins again. “I have felt strongly for you for some time. I have always had some interest, on a basic level, but I did not consider it significant at first. And you have been a good friend, kinder to me than I expected anyone to be here. Moreso than I deserved. I did not want to lose that by being selfish and asking for too much.”

Hanzo fidgets, picking at a fold in his pants. “I did not think the mission would become the problem that it did,” he continues softly. “But I was mistaken. Truthfully, everything I did was done for our mission, but that did not change the fact that I wanted all of it. That I still do.”

“Me too,” McCree says. 

Hanzo looks startled by the interruption, but McCree barrels on. “Look, I know there’s more you wanna say, and I could say like a hundred things right now too, but that all ain’t what matters. What matters is that I think we have a shot at something good here, and I want everything you’re talkin’ about, too. I want to try, if you do.” He leans in, intent, making sure Hanzo is looking at him. “So I just want to know that. Yes or no. Do you want to do this?”

“Yes.” Hanzo answers so quickly, without hesitation, that McCree is momentarily thrown off-balance. He had anticipated having to argue for their fledgling relationship, and was fully prepared to do so if need be. He sits back, the wind effectively taken out of his sails. 

“Well,” he says, chuckling awkwardly. “Well, alright. Good. I’m glad.”

McCree feels a light bump against his hand, supporting his weight flat on the roof, and looks down. Hanzo’s fingertips press gently against his, hesitant, asking permission. “I have not done anything like this in a long time,” Hanzo admits quietly. “I am not quite sure what to do next.”

“Well, that’s up to you.” McCree carefully slips the tips of his fingers between Hanzo’s, so they are interlocked where they rest. “I’m up for just about anything, if it’s you.”

Hanzo seems to consider this for a moment. He turns away for just a moment, reaching past McCree for the paper bag. 

“I think,” he says, peering into the bag and raising his eyebrows appreciatively at the contents, “that perhaps now would be a good time for a drink after all. Do you agree?”

McCree thinks about mentioning that it’s only been four days since their last drinks turned into a nightmare of a hangover. But he recognizes the request for what it is: an excuse to back away from the emotional conversation, at least for a moment. He can’t say he minds. 

They have no glasses, so they crack open the first bottle Hanzo can reach--a mid-range bottle of plum wine, which had been a pain to find but which makes Hanzo smile with anticipation--and pass it between themselves. It’s quiet for a little bit as they both relax, waiting for the alcohol to kick in and ease the tension. They trade anecdotes about the last couple of days, and McCree tells Hanzo about his time in Blackwatch and the history of the little hideout they currently occupy. They relate what Genji said to each of them about their argument, rolling their eyes, though they both know they would be in a different place without Genji’s interference. Hanzo scowls when McCree says that Genji called him broody, and counters that Genji apparently called McCree “short-sighted, but well-meaning.” Degree by degree, the tension hanging between them lessens, and it feels more like any other evening they’ve spent together--the notable difference being their hands, loosely woven together between them, an ever-present tether and reminder of the change.

They stay up on the roof for an hour or so, until the evening chill settles in, sharpened by the cold air sweeping in off the Mediterranean. Even then, they linger a couple minutes longer, reluctant to leave the tiny cocoon of warmth between them until they absolutely must. Finally, Hanzo complains that it is too cold to stay, and they make their way down from the roof and toward the dorms together. McCree feels as drunk on contentment as the wine. 

Hanzo’s room is the first one they come upon, and he stops in front of the door. McCree stops, too, uncertain of what is about to happen. 

“I’m real glad we got this sorted,” he says. 

“As am I,” Hanzo replies, though his attention seems to be partly elsewhere. But before McCree can ask, Hanzo moves into his space, . He quickly leans in, and this time McCree is prepared for the moment when their mouths meet. 

It’s so simple this time, a complete turn-around from the last time they did this. No adrenaline, no fear of being discovered, no teeth bruising against McCree’s mouth from the hastiness of the action: just a soft, dry press of their lips. Hanzo’s hand rests lightly on McCree’s shoulder; McCree’s stay in his pockets. 

But when one kiss ends, McCree can’t resist pressing forward for another, grabbing Hanzo by the shoulders to draw him close--he’ll be damned if he lets this end on something so simple. He almost expects to be admonished, but instead, Hanzo responds in kind, lips parting to deepen the kiss, hand sliding up McCree’s chest to thread through the hair at the nape of his neck. McCree bites back a whine. 

This is so much better than that night in Numbani. It might not technically be the first time they’ve kissed, but this is the true beginning, the first of something new: the one he’ll remember years down the line, for better or worse. 

When they do finally part, McCree has to take a moment to orient himself again. He smiles down at Hanzo and asks, a little cheeky, “That one was real, right? Like if I turn around, there’s not gonna be more Talon guys?” He glances over his shoulder as though to confirm, and Hanzo laughs aloud.

“No,” Hanzo says between chuckles. “No. It is as real as everything else to come.”

McCree’s mirth fades, quickly overshadowed by pure wonder. He must look as astounded as he feels, because Hanzo’s smile widens. 

“Good night, Jesse,” he murmurs. He pats his hand against McCree’s chest before he steps back, then through the door to his room. The door slides shut behind him, leaving McCree in the hall, his feet rooted to the floor but his head in the clouds.

He gets to bed eventually, and sleeps better than he has in years.

 

\--

 

“Hey there, handsome,” McCree croons, sidling up behind Hanzo. Hanzo, though he has an arrow pulled tight on his bow and his gaze on a distant target, smiles and allows McCree’s arms to wrap around him. 

“Hello, Jesse,” he says. “Do you think this is the best time for that?”

“It’s always the best time for this.” McCree punctuates his statement with a quick kiss to the back of Hanzo’s neck. It’s only been a few days since the change in their relationship, but McCree’s gotten comfortable with the constant urge to have his hands on Hanzo. Hanzo, thankfully, does not seem to mind. 

Hanzo lets the arrow fly, and it sinks into the middle of the target some 30 yards down. He tries to reach behind him for another, but he finds a handful of McCree’s shirt instead, and turns his head to give McCree a playfully disdainful look. “Jesse.”

“Oh,  _ fine _ . I actually came down here to shoot, anyway.” McCree steps back, though he is sure to drag his fingers across the tiny strip of skin at Hanzo’s hip where his t-shirt has ridden up. Hanzo narrows his eyes, but there’s a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. 

“Would you like to make our regular bet?” Hanzo asks, lowering his bow. “Highest in ten minutes?”

McCree hums thoughtfully as he sets up his range. “Now that I don’t know about,” he says. 

“No?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I love shooting circles around you. I’m just thinking something a little different when I win, is all.”

Hanzo tilts his head slightly. “Such as?”

“Oh, I have my ideas. If you catch my drift.”

Recognition dawns on Hanzo’s face. He smirks a little, fully turning to face McCree now. “I see,” he says. “Favors?”

“Of a sort.” 

“That is a bold request.”

For a split second, McCree fears he’s overstepped the boundaries of this new thing between them, but those fears are quickly dismissed as Hanzo steps into his space. He moves just close enough that his chest brushes against McCree’s, and he slips a hand between them to tweak the front of McCree’s shirt. “I suppose those terms are acceptable,” he says, voice low and sultry in a way that sends a shiver down McCree’s spine. “And if I win?”

“I reckon you can have just about whatever you want.”

Hanzo chuckles. “Be careful what you promise,” he murmurs, and steps back to his lane of the range. McCree taps at the panels to reset the range, Athena counts down, and the challenge begins.

McCree’s attention is divided before they begin, though. He starts out strong, nailing several targets dead-center and racking up a quick score, but it’s hard to ignore Hanzo beside him. He sneaks a peek every few seconds, easily distracted watching the play of muscles in Hanzo’s back and the easy grace with which he shoots. He has no idea how he got so lucky to be with such a beautiful creature. 

It’s strange, really, how it’s only been a little over a week since they even became aware of each other’s feelings, yet it seems so natural for them to be here now. Their friendly bets and competitions are still the same, their time together filled with lighthearted banter and dry humor just like before, but there’s an extra layer to it now. It’s that much better knowing that when he sees Hanzo smile and affections burns warm in chest, those feelings are reciprocated. 

It hasn’t been without some issues. McCree hasn’t had anything like this in so long, it’s almost foreign to him now. He suspects Hanzo feels the same. There’s an awkwardness at some times as they test each other’s boundaries, feeling out what’s appropriate and what isn’t, what each of them desires. McCree’s learned that while he’s happy with just about anything, Hanzo is private, almost intensely so, and he dislikes public displays--although, once out of sight of the others, he is fiercely affectionate, even if it is tempered by uncertainty and the previous years of solitude. McCree can’t help but wonder, as much as he loves what they have now, what might they have in a few more weeks, or months, or however long this lasts?

This could be--no, this will be something great. He’s certain of it.

“You are going to lose, Jesse,” Hanzo points out. He casts a glance at McCree over his shoulder, a playful twinkle in his eye. McCree flushes and returns his attention to the range.

He does lose the bet. He finds that he doesn’t mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had something more profound to say, but I don't! Thanks for sticking with me through this project. Onto the next!
> 
> You can find me at commonly-nonsensical.tumblr.com (main blog), kerufflewatch.tumblr (Overwatch blog), and @NonsenseCommon on Twitter for updates on whatever other nonsense I'm doing.


End file.
